3013	----	THE BIRDS By Aristophanes (Translator uncredited. Footnotes have been retained because they provide the meanings of Greek names, terms and ceremonies and explain puns and references otherwise lost in translation. Occasional Greek words in the footnotes have not been included. Footnote numbers, in brackets, start anew at (1) for each piece of dialogue, and each footnote follows immediately the dialogue to which it refers, labeled thus: f(1). INTRODUCTION 'The Birds' differs markedly from all the other Comedies of Aristophanes which have come down to us in subject and general conception. It is just an extravaganza pure and simple--a graceful, whimsical theme chosen expressly for the sake of the opportunities it afforded of bright, amusing dialogue, pleasing lyrical interludes, and charming displays of brilliant stage effects and pretty dresses. Unlike other plays of the same Author, there is here apparently no serious political MOTIF underlying the surface burlesque and buffoonery. Some critics, it is true, profess to find in it a reference to the unfortunate Sicilian Expedition, then in progress, and a prophecy of its failure and the political downfall of Alcibiades. But as a matter of fact, the whole thing seems rather an attempt on the dramatist's part to relieve the overwrought minds of his fellow-citizens, anxious and discouraged at the unsatisfactory reports from before Syracuse, by a work conceived in a lighter vein than usual and mainly unconnected with contemporary realities. The play was produced in the year 414 B.C., just when success or failure in Sicily hung in the balance, though already the outlook was gloomy, and many circumstances pointed to impending disaster. Moreover, the public conscience was still shocked and perturbed over the mysterious affair of the mutilation of the Hermae, which had occurred immediately before the sailing of the fleet, and strongly suspicious of Alcibiades' participation in the outrage. In spite of the inherent charm of the subject, the splendid outbursts of lyrical poetry in some of the choruses and the beauty of the scenery and costumes, 'The Birds' failed to win the first prize. This was acclaimed to a play of Aristophanes' rival, Amipsias, the title of which, 'The Comastoe,' or 'Revellers,' "seems to imply that the chief interest was derived from direct allusions to the outrage above mentioned and to the individuals suspected to have been engaged in it." For this reason, which militated against its immediate success, viz. the absence of direct allusion to contemporary politics--there are, of course, incidental references here and there to topics and personages of the day--the play appeals perhaps more than any other of our Author's productions to the modern reader. Sparkling wit, whimsical fancy, poetic charm, are of all ages, and can be appreciated as readily by ourselves as by an Athenian audience of two thousand years ago, though, of course, much is inevitably lost "without the important adjuncts of music, scenery, dresses and what we may call 'spectacle' generally, which we know in this instance to have been on the most magnificent scale." The plot is this. Euelpides and Pisthetaerus, two old Athenians, disgusted with the litigiousness, wrangling and sycophancy of their countrymen, resolve upon quitting Attica. Having heard of the fame of Epops (the hoopoe), sometime called Tereus, and now King of the Birds, they determine, under the direction of a raven and a jackdaw, to seek from him and his subject birds a city free from all care and strife. Arrived at the Palace of Epops, they knock, and Trochilus (the wren), in a state of great flutter, as he mistakes them for fowlers, opens the door and informs them that his Majesty is asleep. When he awakes, the strangers appear before him, and after listening to a long and eloquent harangue on the superior attractions of a residence among the birds, they propose a notable scheme of their own to further enhance its advantages and definitely secure the sovereignty of the universe now exercised by the gods of Olympus. The birds are summoned to meet in general council. They come flying up from all quarters of the heavens, and after a brief mis-understanding, during which they come near tearing the two human envoys to pieces, they listen to the exposition of the latters' plan. This is nothing less than the building of a new city, to be called Nephelococcygia, or 'Cloud-cuckoo-town,' between earth and heaven, to be garrisoned and guarded by the birds in such a way as to intercept all communication of the gods with their worshippers on earth. All steam of sacrifice will be prevented from rising to Olympus, and the Immortals will very soon be starved into an acceptance of any terms proposed. The new Utopia is duly constructed, and the daring plan to secure the sovereignty is in a fair way to succeed. Meantime various quacks and charlatans, each with a special scheme for improving things, arrive from earth, and are one after the other exposed and dismissed. Presently arrives Prometheus, who informs Epops of the desperate straits to which the gods are by this time reduced, and advises him to push his claims and demand the hand of Basileia (Dominion), the handmaid of Zeus. Next an embassy from the Olympians appears on the scene, consisting of Heracles, Posidon and a god from the savage regions of the Triballians. After some disputation, it is agreed that all reasonable demands of the birds are to be granted, while Pisthetaerus is to have Basileia as his bride. The comedy winds up with the epithalamium in honour of the nuptials. THE BIRDS DRAMATIS PERSONAE EUELPIDES PISTHETAERUS EPOPS (the Hoopoe) TROCHILUS, Servant to Epops PHOENICOPTERUS HERALDS A PRIEST A POET A PROPHET METON, a Geometrician A COMMISSIONER A DEALER IN DECREES IRIS A PARRICIDE CINESIAS, a Dithyrambic Bard AN INFORMER PROMETHEUS POSIDON TRIBALLUS HERACLES SLAVES OF PISTHETAERUS MESSENGERS CHORUS OF BIRDS SCENE: A wild, desolate tract of open country; broken rocks and brushwood occupy the centre of the stage. EUELPIDES (TO HIS JAY)(1) Do you think I should walk straight for yon tree? f(1) Euelpides is holding a jay and Pisthetaerus a crow; they are the guides who are to lead them to the kingdom of the birds. PISTHETAERUS (TO HIS CROW) Cursed beast, what are you croaking to me?... to retrace my steps? EUELPIDES Why, you wretch, we are wandering at random, we are exerting ourselves only to return to the same spot; 'tis labour lost. PISTHETAERUS To think that I should trust to this crow, which has made me cover more than a thousand furlongs! EUELPIDES And that I to this jay, which has torn every nail from my fingers! PISTHETAERUS If only I knew where we were.... EUELPIDES Could you find your country again from here? PISTHETAERUS No, I feel quite sure I could not, any more than could Execestides(1) find his. f(1) A stranger who wanted to pass as an Athenian, although coming originally for a far-away barbarian country. EUELPIDES Oh dear! oh dear! PISTHETAERUS Aye, aye, my friend, 'tis indeed the road of "oh dears" we are following. EUELPIDES That Philocrates, the bird-seller, played us a scurvy trick, when he pretended these two guides could help us to find Tereus,(1) the Epops, who is a bird, without being born of one. He has indeed sold us this jay, a true son of Tharelides,(2) for an obolus, and this crow for three, but what can they do? Why, nothing whatever but bite and scratch!--What's the matter with you then, that you keep opening your beak? Do you want us to fling ourselves headlong down these rocks? There is no road that way. f(1) A king of Thrace, a son of Ares, who married Procne, the daughter of Pandion, King of Athens, whom he had assisted against the Megarians. He violated his sister-in-law, Philomela, and then cut out her tongue; she nevertheless managed to convey to her sister how she had been treated. They both agreed to kill Itys, whom Procne had borne to Tereus, and dished up the limbs of his own son to the father; at the end of the meal Philomela appeared and threw the child's head upon the table. Tereus rushed with drawn sword upon the princesses, but all the actors in this terrible scene were metamorph(o)sed. Tereus became an Epops (hoopoe), Procne a swallow, Philomela a nightingale, and Itys a goldfinch. According to Anacreon and Apollodorus it was Procne who became the nightingale and Philomela the swallow, and this is the version of the tradition followed by Aristophanes. f(2) An Athenian who had some resemblance to a jay--so says the scholiast, at any rate. PISTHETAERUS Not even the vestige of a track in any direction. EUELPIDES And what does the crow say about the road to follow? PISTHETAERUS By Zeus, it no longer croaks the same thing it did. EUELPIDES And which way does it tell us to go now? PISTHETAERUS It says that, by dint of gnawing, it will devour my fingers. EUELPIDES What misfortune is ours! we strain every nerve to get to the birds,(1) do everything we can to that end, and we cannot find our way! Yes, spectators, our madness is quite different from that of Sacas. He is not a citizen, and would fain be one at any cost; we, on the contrary, born of an honourable tribe and family and living in the midst of our fellow-citizens, we have fled from our country as hard as ever we could go. 'Tis not that we hate it; we recognize it to be great and rich, likewise that everyone has the right to ruin himself; but the crickets only chirrup among the fig-trees for a month or two, whereas the Athenians spend their whole lives in chanting forth judgments from their law-courts.(2) That is why we started off with a basket, a stew-pot and some myrtle boughs(3) and have come to seek a quiet country in which to settle. We are going to Tereus, the Epops, to learn from him, whether, in his aerial flights, he has noticed some town of this kind. f(1) Literally, 'to go to the crows,' a proverbial expression equivalent to our 'going to the devil.' f(2) They leave Athens because of their hatred of lawsuits and informers; this is the especial failing of the Athenians satirized in 'The Wasps.' f(3) Myrtle boughs were used in sacrifices, and the founding of every colony was started by a sacrifice. PISTHETAERUS Here! look! EUELPIDES What's the matter? PISTHETAERUS Why, the crow has been pointing me to something up there for some time now. EUELPIDES And the jay is also opening its beak and craning its neck to show me I know not what. Clearly, there are some birds about here. We shall soon know, if we kick up a noise to start them. PISTHETAERUS Do you know what to do? Knock your leg against this rock. EUELPIDES And you your head to double the noise. PISTHETAERUS Well then use a stone instead; take one and hammer with it. EUELPIDES Good idea! Ho there, within! Slave! slave! PISTHETAERUS What's that, friend! You say, "slave," to summon Epops! It would be much better to shout, "Epops, Epops!" EUELPIDES Well then, Epops! Must I knock again? Epops! TROCHILUS Who's there? Who calls my master? PISTHETAERUS Apollo the Deliverer! what an enormous beak!(1) f(1) The actors wore masks made to resemble the birds they were supposed to represent. TROCHILUS Good god! they are bird-catchers. EUELPIDES The mere sight of him petrifies me with terror. What a horrible monster. TROCHILUS Woe to you! EUELPIDES But we are not men. TROCHILUS What are you, then? EUELPIDES I am the Fearling, an African bird. TROCHILUS You talk nonsense. EUELPIDES Well, then, just ask it of my feet.(1) f(1) Fear had had disastrous effects upon Euelpides' internal economy, and this his feet evidenced. TROCHILUS And this other one, what bird is it? PISTHETAERUS I? I am a Cackling,(1) from the land of the pheasants. f(1) The same mishap had occurred to Pisthetaerus. EUELPIDES But you yourself, in the name of the gods! what animal are you? TROCHILUS Why, I am a slave-bird. EUELPIDES Why, have you been conquered by a cock? TROCHILUS No, but when my master was turned into a peewit, he begged me to become a bird too, to follow and to serve him. EUELPIDES Does a bird need a servant, then? TROCHILUS 'Tis no doubt because he was a man. At times he wants to eat a dish of loach from Phalerum; I seize my dish and fly to fetch him some. Again he wants some pea-soup; I seize a ladle and a pot and run to get it. EUELPIDES This is, then, truly a running-bird.(1) Come, Trochilus, do us the kindness to call your master. f(1) The Greek word for a wren is derived from the same root as 'to run.' TROCHILUS Why, he has just fallen asleep after a feed of myrtle-berries and a few grubs. EUELPIDES Never mind; wake him up. TROCHILUS I an certain he will be angry. However, I will wake him to please you. PISTHETAERUS You cursed brute! why, I am almost dead with terror! EUELPIDES Oh! my god! 'twas sheer fear that made me lose my jay. PISTHETAERUS Ah! you great coward! were you so frightened that you let go your jay? EUELPIDES And did you not lose your crow, when you fell sprawling on the ground? Pray tell me that. PISTHETAERUS No, no. EUELPIDES Where is it, then? PISTHETAERUS It has flown away. EUELPIDES Then you did not let it go? Oh! you brave fellow! EPOPS Open the forest,(1) that I may go out! f(1) No doubt there was some scenery to represent a forest. Besides, there is a pun intended. The words answering for 'forests' and 'door' in Greek only differ slightly in sound. EUELPIDES By Heracles! what a creature! what plumage! What means this triple crest? EPOPS Who wants me? EUELPIDES The twelve great gods have used you ill, meseems. EPOPS Are you chaffing me about my feathers? I have been a man, strangers. EUELPIDES 'Tis not you we are jeering at. EPOPS At what, then? EUELPIDES Why, 'tis your beak that looks so odd to us. EPOPS This is how Sophocles outrages me in his tragedies. Know, I once was Tereus.(1) f(1) Sophocles had written a tragedy about Tereus, in which, no doubt, the king finally appears as a hoopoe. EUELPIDES You were Tereus, and what are you now? a bird or a peacock?(1) f(1) (O)ne would expect the question to be "bird or man."--Are you a peacock? The hoopoe resembles the peacock inasmuch as both have crests. EPOPS I am a bird. EUELPIDES Then where are your feathers? For I don't see them. EPOPS They have fallen off. EUELPIDES Through illness? EPOPS No. All birds moult their feathers, you know, every winter, and others grow in their place. But tell me, who are you? EUELPIDES We? We are mortals. EPOPS From what country? EUELPIDES From the land of the beautiful galleys.(1) f(1) Athens. EPOPS Are you dicasts?(1) f(1) The Athenians were madly addicted to lawsuits. (See 'The Wasps.') EUELPIDES No, if anything, we are anti-dicasts. EPOPS Is that kind of seed sown among you?(1) f(1) As much as to say, 'Then you have such things as anti-dicasts?' And Euelpides practically replaces, 'Very few.' EUELPIDES You have to look hard to find even a little in our fields. EPOPS What brings you here? EUELPIDES We wish to pay you a visit. EPOPS What for? EUELPIDES Because you formerly were a man, like we are, formerly you had debts, as we have, formerly you did not want to pay them, like ourselves; furthermore, being turned into a bird, you have when flying seen all lands and seas. Thus you have all human knowledge as well as that of birds. And hence we have come to you to beg you to direct us to some cosy town, in which one can repose as if on thick coverlets. EPOPS And are you looking for a greater city than Athens? EUELPIDES No, not a greater, but one more pleasant to dwell in. EPOPS Then you are looking for an aristocratic country. EUELPIDES I? Not at all! I hold the son of Scellias in horror.(1) f(1) His name was Aristocrates; he was a general and commanded a fleet sent in aid of Corcyra. EPOPS But, after all, what sort of city would please you best? EUELPIDES A place where the following would be the most important business transacted.--Some friend would come knocking at the door quite early in the morning saying, "By Olympian Zeus, be at my house early, as soon as you have bathed, and bring your children too. I am giving a nuptial feast, so don't fail, or else don't cross my threshold when I am in distress." EPOPS Ah! that's what may be called being fond of hardships! And what say you? PISTHETAERUS My tastes are similar. EPOPS And they are? PISTHETAERUS I want a town where the father of a handsome lad will stop in the street and say to me reproachfully as if I had failed him, "Ah! Is this well done, Stilbonides! You met my son coming from the bath after the gymnasium and you neither spoke to him, nor embraced him, nor took him with you, nor ever once twitched his parts. Would anyone call you an old friend of mine?" EPOPS Ah! wag, I see you are fond of suffering. But there is a city of delights, such as you want. 'Tis on the Red Sea. EUELPIDES Oh, no. Not a sea-port, where some fine morning the Salaminian(1) galley can appear, bringing a writ-server along. Have you no Greek town you can propose to us? f(1) The State galley, which carried the officials of the Athenian republic to their several departments and brought back those whose time had expired; it was this galley that was sent to Sicily to fetch back Alcibiades, who was accused of sacrilege. EPOPS Why not choose Lepreum in Elis for your settlement? EUELPIDES By Zeus! I could not look at Lepreum without disgust, because of Melanthius.(1) f(1) A tragic poet, who was a leper; there is a play, of course, on the word Lepreum. EPOPS Then, again, there is the Opuntian, where you could live. EUELPIDES I would not be Opuntian(1) for a talent. But come, what is it like to live with the birds? You should know pretty well. f(1) An allusion to Opuntius, who was one-eyed. EPOPS Why, 'tis not a disagreeable life. In the first place, one has no purse. EUELPIDES That does away with much roguery. EPOPS For food the gardens yield us white sesame, myrtle-berries, poppies and mint. EUELPIDES Why, 'tis the life of the newly-wed indeed.(1) f(1) The newly-married ate a sesame-cake, decorated with garlands of myrtle, poppies and mint. PISTHETAERUS Ha! I am beginning to see a great plan, which will transfer the supreme power to the birds, if you will but take my advice. EPOPS Take your advice? In what way? PISTHETAERUS In what way? Well, firstly, do not fly in all directions with open beak; it is not dignified. Among us, when we see a thoughtless man, we ask, "What sort of bird is this?" and Teleas answers, "'Tis a man who has no brain, a bird that has lost his head, a creature you cannot catch, for it never remains in any one place." EPOPS By Zeus himself! your jest hits the mark. What then is to be done? PISTHETAERUS Found a city. EPOPS We birds? But what sort of city should we build? PISTHETAERUS Oh, really, really! 'tis spoken like a fool! Look down. EPOPS I am looking. PISTHETAERUS Now look upwards. EPOPS I am looking. PISTHETAERUS Turn your head round. EPOPS Ah! 'twill be pleasant for me, if I end in twisting my neck! PISTHETAERUS What have you seen? EPOPS The clouds and the sky. PISTHETAERUS Very well! is not this the pole of the birds then? EPOPS How their pole? PISTHETAERUS Or, if you like it, the land. And since it turns and passes through the whole universe, it is called, 'pole.'(1) If you build and fortify it, you will turn your pole into a fortified city.(2) In this way you will reign over mankind as you do over the grasshoppers and cause the gods to die of rabid hunger. f(1) From (the word meaning) 'to turn.' f(2) The Greek words for 'pole' and 'city' only differ by a single letter. EPOPS How so? PISTHETAERUS The air is 'twixt earth and heaven. When we want to go to Delphi, we ask the Boeotians(1) for leave of passage; in the same way, when men sacrifice to the gods, unless the latter pay you tribute, you exercise the right of every nation towards strangers and don't allow the smoke of the sacrifices to pass through your city and territory. f(1) Boeotia separated Attica from Phocis. EPOPS By earth! by snares! by network!(1) I never heard of anything more cleverly conceived; and, if the other birds approve, I am going to build the city along with you. f(1) He swears by the powers that are to him dreadful. PISTHETAERUS Who will explain the matter to them? EPOPS You must yourself. Before I came they were quite ignorant, but since I have lived with them I have taught them to speak. PISTHETAERUS But how can they be gathered together? EPOPS Easily. I will hasten down to the coppice to waken my dear Procne!(1) as soon as they hear our voices, they will come to us hot wing. f(1) As already stated, according to the legend accepted by Aristophanes, it was Procne who was turned into the nightengale. PISTHETAERUS My dear bird, lose no time, I beg. Fly at once into the coppice and awaken Procne. EPOPS Chase off drowsy sleep, dear companion. Let the sacred hymn gush from thy divine throat in melodious strains; roll forth in soft cadence your refreshing melodies to bewail the fate of Itys,(1) which has been the cause of so many tears to us both. Your pure notes rise through the thick leaves of the yew-tree right up to the throne of Zeus, where Phoebus listens to you, Phoebus with his golden hair. And his ivory lyre responds to your plaintive accents; he gathers the choir of the gods and from their immortal lips rushes a sacred chant of blessed voices. (THE FLUTE IS PLAYED BEHIND THE SCENE.) f(1) The son of Tereus and Procne. PISTHETAERUS Oh! by Zeus! what a throat that little bird possesses. He has filled the whole coppice with honey-sweet melody! EUELPIDES Hush! PISTHETAERUS What's the matter? EUELPIDES Will you keep silence? PISTHETAERUS What for? EUELPIDES Epops is going to sing again. EPOPS (IN THE COPPICE) Epopoi poi popoi, epopoi, popoi, here, here, quick, quick, quick, my comrades in the air; all you who pillage the fertile lands of the husbandmen, the numberless tribes who gather and devour the barley seeds, the swift flying race who sing so sweetly. And you whose gentle twitter resounds through the fields with the little cry of tio, tio, tio, tio, tio, tio, tio, tio; and you who hop about the branches of the ivy in the gardens; the mountain birds, who feed on the wild olive berries or the arbutus, hurry to come at my call, trioto, trioto, totobrix; you also, who snap up the sharp-stinging gnats in the marshy vales, and you who dwell in the fine plain of Marathon, all damp with dew, and you, the francolin with speckled wings; you too, the halcyons, who flit over the swelling waves of the sea, come hither to hear the tidings; let all the tribes of long-necked birds assemble here; know that a clever old man has come to us, bringing an entirely new idea and proposing great reforms. Let all come to the debate here, here, here, here. Torotorotorotorotix, kikkobau, kikkobau, torotorotorotorolililix. PISTHETAERUS Can you see any bird? EUELPIDES By Phoebus, no! and yet I am straining my eyesight to scan the sky. PISTHETAERUS 'Twas really not worth Epops' while to go and bury himself in the thicket like a plover when a-hatching. PHOENICOPTERUS Torotina, torotina. PISTHETAERUS Hold, friend, here is another bird. EUELPIDES I' faith, yes, 'tis a bird, but of what kind? Isn't it a peacock? PISTHETAERUS Epops will tell us. What is this bird? EPOPS 'Tis not one of those you are used to seeing; 'tis a bird from the marshes. PISTHETAERUS Oh! oh! but he is very handsome with his wings as crimson as flame. EPOPS Undoubtedly; indeed he is called flamingo.(1) f(1) An African bird, that comes to the southern countries of Europe, to Greece, Italy, and Spain; it is even seen in Provence. EUELPIDES Hi! I say! You! PISTHETAERUS What are you shouting for? EUELPIDES Why, here's another bird. PISTHETAERUS Aye, indeed; 'tis a foreign bird too. What is this bird from beyond the mountains with a look as solemn as it is stupid? EPOPS He is called the Mede.(1) f(1) Aristophanes amusingly mixes up real birds with people and individuals, whom he represents in the form of birds; he is personifying the Medians here. PISTHETAERUS The Mede! But, by Heracles, how, if a Mede, has he flown here without a camel? EUELPIDES Here's another bird with a crest. PISTHETAERUS Ah! that's curious. I say, Epops, you are not the only one of your kind then? EPOPS This bird is the son of Philocles, who is the son of Epops;(1) so that, you see, I am his grandfather; just as one might say, Hipponicus,(2) the son of Callias, who is the son of Hipponicus. f(1) Philocles, a tragic poet, had written a tragedy on Tereus, which was simply a plagiarism of the play of the same name by Sophocles. Philocles is the son of Epops, because he got his inspiration from Sophocles' Tereus, and at the same time is father to Epops, since he himself produced another Tereus. f(2) This Hipponicus is probably the orator whose ears Alcibiades boxed to gain a bet; he was a descendant of Callias, who was famous for his hatred of Pisistratus. PISTHETAERUS Then this bird is Callias! Why, what a lot of his feathers he has lost!(1) f(1) This Callias, who must not be confounded with the foe of Pisistratus, had ruined himself. EPOPS That's because he is honest; so the informers set upon him and the women too pluck out his feathers. PISTHETAERUS By Posidon, do you see that many-coloured bird? What is his name? EPOPS This one? 'Tis the glutton. PISTHETAERUS Is there another glutton besides Cleonymus? But why, if he is Cleonymus, has he not thrown away his crest?(1) But what is the meaning of all these crests? Have these birds come to contend for the double stadium prize?(2) f(1) Cleonymus had cast away his shield; he was as great a glutton as he was a coward. f(2) A race in which the track had to be circled twice. EPOPS They are like the Carians, who cling to the crests of their mountains for greater safety.(1) f(1) A people of Asia Minor; when pursued by the Ionians they took refuge in the mountains. PISTHETAERUS Oh, Posidon! do you see what swarms of birds are gathering here? EUELPIDES By Phoebus! what a cloud! The entrance to the stage is no longer visible, so closely do they fly together. PISTHETAERUS Here is the partridge. EUELPIDES Faith! there is the francolin. PISTHETAERUS There is the poachard. EUELPIDES Here is the kingfisher. And over yonder? EPOPS 'Tis the barber. EUELPIDES What? a bird a barber? PISTHETAERUS Why, Sporgilus is one.(1) Here comes the owl. f(1) An Athenian barber. EUELPIDES And who is it brings an owl to Athens?(1) f(1) The owl was dedicated to Athene, and being respected at Athens, it had greatly multiplied. Hence the proverb, 'taking owls to Athens,' similar to our English 'taking coals to Newcastle.' PISTHETAERUS Here is the magpie, the turtle-dove, the swallow, the horned owl, the buzzard, the pigeon, the falcon, the ring-dove, the cuckoo, the red-foot, the red-cap, the purple-cap, the kestrel, the diver, the ousel, the osprey, the woodpecker. EUELPIDES Oh! oh! what a lot of birds! what a quantity of blackbirds! how they scold, how they come rushing up! What a noise! what a noise! Can they be bearing us ill-will? Oh! there! there! they are opening their beaks and staring at us. PISTHETAERUS Why, so they are. CHORUS Popopopopopopopoi. Where is he who called me? Where am I to find him? EPOPS I have been waiting for you this long while! I never fail in my word to my friends. CHORUS Titititititititi. What good thing have you to tell me? EPOPS Something that concerns our common safety, and that is just as pleasant as it is to the purpose. Two men, who are subtle reasoners, have come here to seek me. CHORUS Where? What? What are you saying? EPOPS I say, two old men have come from the abode of men to propose a vast and splendid scheme to us. CHORUS Oh! 'tis a horrible, unheard-of crime! What are you saying? EPOPS Nay! never let my words scare you. CHORUS What have you done then? EPOPS I have welcomed two men, who wish to live with us. CHORUS And you have dared to do that! EPOPS Aye, and am delighted at having done so. CHORUS Where are they? EPOPS In your midst, as I am. CHORUS Ah! ah! we are betrayed; 'tis sacrilege! Our friend, he who picked up corn-seeds in the same plains as ourselves, has violated our ancient laws; he has broken the oaths that bind all birds; he has laid a snare for me, he has handed us over to the attacks of that impious race which, throughout all time, has never ceased to war against us. As for this traitorous bird, we will decide his case later, but the two old men shall be punished forthwith; we are going to tear them to pieces. PISTHETAERUS 'Tis all over with us. EUELPIDES You are the sole cause of all our trouble. Why did you bring me from down yonder? PISTHETAERUS To have you with me. EUELPIDES Say rather to have me melt into tears. PISTHETAERUS Go to! you are talking nonsense. EUELPIDES How so? PISTHETAERUS How will you be able to cry when once your eyes are pecked out? CHORUS Io! io! forward to the attack, throw yourselves upon the foe, spill his blood; take to your wings and surround them on all sides. Woe to them! let us get to work with our beaks, let us devour them. Nothing can save them from our wrath, neither the mountain forests, nor the clouds that float in the sky, nor the foaming deep. Come, peck, tear to ribbons. Where is the chief of the cohort? Let him engage the right wing. EUELPIDES This is the fatal moment. Where shall I fly to, unfortunate wretch that I am? PISTHETAERUS Stay! stop here! EUELPIDES That they may tear me to pieces? PISTHETAERUS And how do you think to escape them? EUELPIDES I don't know at all. PISTHETAERUS Come, I will tell you. We must stop and fight them. Let us arm ourselves with these stew-pots. EUELPIDES Why with the stew-pots? PISTHETAERUS The owl will not attack us.(1) f(1) An allusion to the Feast of Pots; it was kept at Athens on the third day of the Anthesteria, when all sorts of vegetables were stewed together and offered for the dead to Bacchus and Athene. This Feast was peculiar to Athens.--Hence Pisthetaerus thinks that the owl will recognize they are Athenians by seeing the stew-pots, and as he is an Athenian bird, he will not attack them. EUELPIDES But do you see all those hooked claws? PISTHETAERUS Seize the spit and pierce the foe on your side. EUELPIDES And how about my eyes? PISTHETAERUS Protect them with this dish or this vinegar-pot. EUELPIDES Oh! what cleverness! what inventive genius! You are a great general, even greater than Nicias,(1) where stratagem is concerned. f(1) Nicias, the famous Athenian general.--The siege of Melos in 417 B.C., or two years previous to the production of 'The Birds,' had especially done him great credit. He was joint commander of the Sicilian expedition. CHORUS Forward, forward, charge with your beaks! Come, no delay. Tear, pluck, strike, flay them, and first of all smash the stew-pot. EPOPS Oh, most cruel of all animals, why tear these two men to pieces, why kill them? What have they done to you? They belong to the same tribe, to the same family as my wife.(1) f(1) Procne, the daughter of Pandion, King of Athens. CHORUS Are wolves to be spared? Are they not our most mortal foes? So let us punish them. EPOPS If they are your foes by nature, they are your friends in heart, and they come here to give you useful advice. CHORUS Advice or a useful word from their lips, from them, the enemies of my forebears! EPOPS The wise can often profit by the lessons of a foe, for caution is the mother of safety. 'Tis just such a thing as one will not learn from a friend and which an enemy compels you to know. To begin with, 'tis the foe and not the friend that taught cities to build high walls, to equip long vessels of war; and 'tis this knowledge that protects our children, our slaves and our wealth. CHORUS Well then, I agree, let us first hear them, for 'tis best; one can even learn something in an enemy's school. PISTHETAERUS Their wrath seems to cool. Draw back a little. EPOPS 'Tis only justice, and you will thank me later. CHORUS Never have we opposed your advice up to now. PISTHETAERUS They are in a more peaceful mood; put down your stew-pot and your two dishes; spit in hand, doing duty for a spear, let us mount guard inside the camp close to the pot and watch in our arsenal closely; for we must not fly. EUELPIDES You are right. But where shall we be buried, if we die? PISTHETAERUS In the Ceramicus;(1) for, to get a public funeral, we shall tell the Strategi that we fell at Orneae,(2) fighting the country's foes. f(1) A space beyond the walls of Athens which contained the gardens of the Academy and the graves of citizens who had died for their country. f(2) A town in Western Argolis, where the Athenians had been recently defeated. The somewhat similar work in Greek signifies 'birds.' CHORUS Return to your ranks and lay down your courage beside your wrath as the Hoplites do. Then let us ask these men who they are, whence they come, and with what intent. Here, Epops, answer me. EPOPS Are you calling me? What do you want of me? CHORUS Who are they? From what country? EPOPS Strangers, who have come from Greece, the land of the wise. CHORUS And what fate has led them hither to the land of the birds? EPOPS Their love for you and their wish to share your kind of life; to dwell and remain with you always. CHORUS Indeed, and what are their plans? EPOPS They are wonderful, incredible, unheard of. CHORUS Why, do they think to see some advantage that determines them to settle here? Are they hoping with our help to triumph over their foes or to be useful to their friends? EPOPS They speak of benefits so great it is impossible either to describe or conceive them; all shall be yours, all that we see here, there, above and below us; this they vouch for. CHORUS Are they mad? EPOPS They are the sanest people in the world. CHORUS Clever men? EPOPS The slyest of foxes, cleverness its very self, men of the world, cunning, the cream of knowing folk. CHORUS Tell them to speak and speak quickly; why, as I listen to you, I am beside myself with delight. EPOPS Here, you there, take all these weapons and hang them up inside close to the fire, near the figure of the god who presides there and under his protection;(1) as for you, address the birds, tell them why I have gathered them together. f(1) Epops is addressing the two slaves, no doubt Xanthias and Manes, who are mentioned later on. PISTHETAERUS Not I, by Apollo, unless they agree with me as the little ape of an armourer agreed with his wife, not to bite me, nor pull me by the parts, nor shove things up my... CHORUS You mean the...(PUTS FINGER TO BOTTOM) Oh! be quite at ease. PISTHETAERUS No, I mean my eyes. CHORUS Agreed. PISTHETAERUS Swear it. CHORUS I swear it and, if I keep my promise, let judges and spectators give me the victory unanimously. PISTHETAERUS It is a bargain. CHORUS And if I break my word, may I succeed by one vote only. HERALD Hearken, ye people! Hoplites, pick up your weapons and return to your firesides; do not fail to read the decrees of dismissal we have posted. CHORUS Man is a truly cunning creature, but nevertheless explain. Perhaps you are going to show me some good way to extend my power, some way that I have not had the wit to find out and which you have discovered. Speak! 'tis to your own interest as well as to mine, for if you secure me some advantage, I will surely share it with you. But what object can have induced you to come among us? Speak boldly, for I shall not break the truce,--until you have told us all. PISTHETAERUS I am bursting with desire to speak; I have already mixed the dough of my address and nothing prevents me from kneading it.... Slave! bring the chaplet and water, which you must pour over my hands. Be quick!(1) f(1) It was customary, when speaking in public and also at feasts, to wear a chaplet; hence the question Euelpides puts.--The guests wore chaplets of flowers, herbs, and leaves, which had the property of being refreshing. EUELPIDES Is it a question of feasting? What does it all mean? PISTHETAERUS By Zeus, no! but I am hunting for fine, tasty words to break down the hardness of their hearts.--I grieve so much for you, who at one time were kings... CHORUS We kings! Over whom? PISTHETAERUS ...of all that exists, firstly of me and of this man, even of Zeus himself. Your race is older than Saturn, the Titans and the Earth. CHORUS What, older than the Earth! PISTHETAERUS By Phoebus, yes. CHORUS By Zeus, but I never knew that before! PISTHETAERUS 'Tis because you are ignorant and heedless, and have never read your Aesop. 'Tis he who tells us that the lark was born before all other creatures, indeed before the Earth; his father died of sickness, but the Earth did not exist then; he remained unburied for five days, when the bird in its dilemma decided, for want of a better place, to entomb its father in its own head. EUELPIDES So that the lark's father is buried at Cephalae.(1) f(1) A deme of Attica. In Greek the word also means 'heads,' and hence the pun. EPOPS Hence, if we existed before the Earth, before the gods, the kingship belongs to us by right of priority. EUELPIDES Undoubtedly, but sharpen your beak well; Zeus won't be in a hurry to hand over his sceptre to the woodpecker. PISTHETAERUS It was not the gods, but the birds, who were formerly the masters and kings over men; of this I have a thousand proofs. First of all, I will point you to the cock, who governed the Persians before all other monarchs, before Darius and Megabyzus.(1) 'Tis in memory of his reign that he is called the Persian bird. f(1) One of Darius' best generals. After his expedition against the Scythians, this prince gave him the command of the army which he left in Europe. Megabyzus took Perinthos (afterwards called Heraclea) and conquered Thrace. EUELPIDES For this reason also, even to-day, he alone of all the birds wears his tiara straight on his head, like the Great King.(1) f(1) All Persians wore the tiara, but always on one side; the Great King alone wore it straight on his head. PISTHETAERUS He was so strong, so great, so feared, that even now, on account of his ancient power, everyone jumps out of bed as soon as ever he crows at daybreak. Blacksmiths, potters, tanners, shoemakers, bathmen, corn-dealers, lyre-makers and armourers, all put on their shoes and go to work before it is daylight. EUELPIDES I can tell you something about that. 'Twas the cock's fault that I lost a splendid tunic of Phrygian wool. I was at a feast in town, given to celebrate the birth of a child; I had drunk pretty freely and had just fallen asleep, when a cock, I suppose in a greater hurry than the rest, began to crow. I thought it was dawn and set out for Alimos.(1) I had hardly got beyond the walls, when a footpad struck me in the back with his bludgeon; down I went and wanted to shout, but he had already made off with my mantle. f(1) Noted as the birthplace of Thucydides, a deme of Attica of the tribe of Leontis. Demosthenes tells us it was thirty-five stadia from Athens. PISTHETAERUS Formerly also the kite was ruler and king over the Greeks. EPOPS The Greeks? PISTHETAERUS And when he was king, 'twas he who first taught them to fall on their knees before the kites.(1) f(1) The appearance of the kite in Greece betokened the return of springtime; it was therefore worshipped as a symbol of that season. EUELPIDES By Zeus! 'tis what I did myself one day on seeing a kite; but at the moment I was on my knees, and leaning backwards(1) with mouth agape, I bolted an obolus and was forced to carry my bag home empty.(2) f(1) To look at the kite, who no doubt was flying high in the sky. f(2) As already shown, the Athenians were addicted to carrying small coins in their mouths.--This obolus was for the purpose of buying flour to fill the bag he was carrying PISTHETAERUS The cuckoo was king of Egypt and of the whole of Phoenicia. When he called out "cuckoo," all the Phoenicians hurried to the fields to reap their wheat and their barley.(1) f(1) In Phoenicia and Egypt the cuckoo makes its appearance about harvest-time. EUELPIDES Hence no doubt the proverb, "Cuckoo! cuckoo! go to the fields, ye circumcised."(1) f(1) This was an Egyptian proverb, meaning, 'When the cuckoo sings we go harvesting.' Both the Phoenicians and the Egyptians practised circumcision. PISTHETAERUS So powerful were the birds that the kings of Grecian cities, Agamemnon, Menelaus, for instance, carried a bird on the tip of their sceptres, who had his share of all presents.(1) f(1) The staff, called a sceptre, generally terminated in a piece of carved work, representing a flower, a fruit, and most often a bird. EUELPIDES That I didn't know and was much astonished when I saw Priam come upon the stage in the tragedies with a bird, which kept watching Lysicrates(1) to see if he got any present. f(1) A general accused of treachery. The bird watches Lysicrates, because, according to Pisthetaerus, he had a right to a share of the presents. PISTHETAERUS But the strongest proof of all is, that Zeus, who now reigns, is represented as standing with an eagle on his head as a symbol of his royalty;(1) his daughter has an owl, and Phoebus, as his servant, has a hawk. f(1) It is thus that Phidias represents his Olympian Zeus. EUELPIDES By Demeter, 'tis well spoken. But what are all these birds doing in heaven? PISTHETAERUS When anyone sacrifices and, according to the rite, offers the entrails to the gods, these birds take their share before Zeus. Formerly men always swore by the birds and never by the gods; even now Lampon(1) swears by the goose, when he wants to lie....Thus 'tis clear that you were great and sacred, but now you are looked upon as slaves, as fools, as Helots; stones are thrown at you as at raving madmen, even in holy places. A crowd of bird-catchers sets snares, traps, limed-twigs and nets of all sorts for you; you are caught, you are sold in heaps and the buyers finger you over to be certain you are fat. Again, if they would but serve you up simply roasted; but they rasp cheese into a mixture of oil, vinegar and laserwort, to which another sweet and greasy sauce is added, and the whole is poured scalding hot over your back, for all the world as if you were diseased meat. f(1) One of the diviners sent to Sybaris (in Magna Graecia, S. Italy) with the Athenian colonists, who rebuilt the town under the new name of Thurium. CHORUS Man, your words have made my heart bleed; I have groaned over the treachery of our fathers, who knew not how to transmit to us the high rank they held from their forefathers. But 'tis a benevolent Genius, a happy Fate, that sends you to us; you shall be our deliverer and I place the destiny of my little ones and my own in your hands with every confidence. But hasten to tell me what must be done; we should not be worthy to live, if we did not seek to regain our royalty by every possible means. PISTHETAERUS First I advise that the birds gather together in one city and that they build a wall of great bricks, like that at Babylon, round the plains of the air and the whole region of space that divides earth from heaven. EPOPS Oh, Cebriones! oh, Porphyrion!(1) what a terribly strong place! f(1) As if he were saying, "Oh, gods!" Like Lampon, he swears by the birds, instead of swearing by the gods.--The names of these birds are those of two of the Titans. PISTHETAERUS Th(en), this being well done and completed, you demand back the empire from Zeus; if he will not agree, if he refuses and does not at once confess himself beaten, you declare a sacred war against him and forbid the gods henceforward to pass through your country with lust, as hitherto, for the purpose of fondling their Alcmenas, their Alopes, or their Semeles!(1) if they try to pass through, you infibulate them with rings so that they can work no longer. You send another messenger to mankind, who will proclaim to them that the birds are kings, that for the future they must first of all sacrifice to them, and only afterwards to the gods; that it is fitting to appoint to each deity the bird that has most in common with it. For instance, are they sacrificing to Aphrodite, let them at the same time offer barley to the coot; are they immolating a sheep to Posidon, let them consecrate wheat in honour of the duck;(2) is a steer being offered to Heracles, let honey-cakes be dedicated to the gull;(3) is a goat being slain for King Zeus, there is a King-Bird, the wren,(4) to whom the sacrifice of a male gnat is due before Zeus himself even. f(1) Alcmena, wife of Amphitryon, King of Thebes and mother of Heracles.--Semele, the daughter of Cadmus and Hermione and mother of Bacchus; both seduced by Zeus.--Alope, daughter of Cercyon, a robber, who reigned at Eleusis and was conquered by Perseus. Alope was honoured with Posidon's caresses; by him she had a son named Hippothous, at first brought up by shepherds but who afterwards was restored to the throne of his grandfather by Theseus. f(2) Because water is the duck's domain, as it is that of Posidon. f(3) Because the gull, like Heracles, is voracious. f(4) The Germans still call it 'Zaunkonig' and the French 'roitelet,' both names thus containing the idea of 'king.' EUELPIDES This notion of an immolated gnat delights me! And now let the great Zeus thunder! EPOPS But how will mankind recognize us as gods and not as jays? Us, who have wings and fly? PISTHETAERUS You talk rubbish! Hermes is a god and has wings and flies, and so do many other gods. First of all, Victory flies with golden wings, Eros is undoubtedly winged too, and Iris is compared by Homer to a timorous dove.(1) If men in their blindness do not recognize you as gods and continue to worship the dwellers in Olympus, then a cloud of sparrows greedy for corn must descend upon their fields and eat up all their seeds; we shall see then if Demeter will mete them out any wheat. f(1) The scholiast draws our attention to the fact that Homer says this of Here and not of Iris (Iliad, V, 778); it is only another proof that the text of Homer has reached us in a corrupted form, or it may be that Aristophanes was liable, like other people, to occasional mistakes of quotation. EUELPIDES By Zeus, she'll take good care she does not, and you will see her inventing a thousand excuses. PISTHETAERUS The crows too will prove your divinity to them by pecking out the eyes of their flocks and of their draught-oxen; and then let Apollo cure them, since he is a physician and is paid for the purpose.(1) f(1) In sacrifices. EUELPIDES Oh! don't do that! Wait first until I have sold my two young bullocks. PISTHETAERUS If on the other hand they recognize that you are God, the principle of life, that you are Earth, Saturn, Posidon, they shall be loaded with benefits. EPOPS Name me one of these then. PISTHETAERUS Firstly, the locusts shall not eat up their vine-blossoms; a legion of owls and kestrels will devour them. Moreover, the gnats and the gall-bugs shall no longer ravage the figs; a flock of thrushes shall swallow the whole host down to the very last. EPOPS And how shall we give wealth to mankind? This is their strongest passion. PISTHETAERUS When they consult the omens, you will point them to the richest mines, you will reveal the paying ventures to the diviner, and not another shipwreck will happen or sailor perish. EPOPS No more shall perish? How is that? PISTHETAERUS When the auguries are examined before starting on a voyage, some bird will not fail to say, "Don't start! there will be a storm," or else, "Go! you will make a most profitable venture." EUELPIDES I shall buy a trading-vessel and go to sea, I will not stay with you. PISTHETAERUS You will discover treasures to them, which were buried in former times, for you know them. Do not all men say, "None knows where my treasure lies, unless perchance it be some bird."(1) f(1) An Athenian proverb. EUELPIDES I shall sell my boat and buy a spade to unearth the vessels. EPOPS And how are we to give them health, which belongs to the gods? PISTHETAERUS If they are happy, is not that the chief thing towards health? The miserable man is never well. EPOPS Old Age also dwells in Olympus. How will they get at it? Must they die in early youth? PISTHETAERUS Why, the birds, by Zeus, will add three hundred years to their life. EPOPS From whom will they take them? PISTHETAERUS From whom? Why, from themselves. Don't you know the cawing crow lives five times as long as a man? EUELPIDES Ah! ah! these are far better kings for us than Zeus! PISTHETAERUS Far better, are they not? And firstly, we shall not have to build them temples of hewn stone, closed with gates of gold; they will dwell amongst the bushes and in the thickets of green oak; the most venerated of birds will have no other temple than the foliage of the olive tree; we shall not go to Delphi or to Ammon to sacrifice;(1) but standing erect in the midst of arbutus and wild olives and holding forth our hands filled with wheat and barley, we shall pray them to admit us to a share of the blessings they enjoy and shall at once obtain them for a few grains of wheat. f(1) A celebrated temple to Zeus in an oasis of Libya. CHORUS Old man, whom I detested, you are now to me the dearest of all; never shall I, if I can help it, fail to follow your advice. Inspirited by your words, I threaten my rivals the gods, and I swear that if you march in alliance with me against the gods and are faithful to our just, loyal and sacred bond, we shall soon have shattered their sceptre. 'Tis our part to undertake the toil, 'tis yours to advise. EPOPS By Zeus! 'tis no longer the time to delay and loiter like Nicias;(1) let us act as promptly as possible.... In the first place, come, enter my nest built of brushwood and blades of straw, and tell me your names. f(1) Nicias was commander, along with Demosthenes, and later on Alcibiades, of the Athenian forces before Syracuse, in the ill-fated Sicilian Expedition, 415-413 B.C. He was much blamed for dilatoriness and indecision. PISTHETAERUS That is soon done; my name is Pisthetaerus. EPOPS And his? PISTHETAERUS Euelpides, of the deme of Thria. EPOPS Good! and good luck to you. PISTHETAERUS We accept the omen. EPOPS Come in here. PISTHETAERUS Very well, 'tis you who lead us and must introduce us. EPOPS Come then. PISTHETAERUS Oh! my god! do come back here. Hi! tell us how we are to follow you. You can fly, but we cannot. EPOPS Well, well. PISTHETAERUS Remember Aesop's fables. It is told there, that the fox fared very ill, because he had made an alliance with the eagle. EPOPS Be at ease. You shall eat a certain root and wings will grow on your shoulders. PISTHETAERUS Then let us enter. Xanthias and Manes,(1) pick up our baggage. f(1) Servants of Pisthetaerus and Euelpides. CHORUS Hi! Epops! do you hear me? EPOPS What's the matter? CHORUS Take them off to dine well and call your mate, the melodious Procne, whose songs are worthy of the Muses; she will delight our leisure moments. PISTHETAERUS Oh! I conjure you, accede to their wish; for this delightful bird will leave her rushes at the sound of your voice; for the sake of the gods, let her come here, so that we may contemplate the nightingale.(1) f(1) It has already been mentioned that, according to the legend followed by Aristophanes, Procne had been changed into a nightingale and Philomela into a swallow. EPOPS Let it be as you desire. Come forth, Procne, show yourself to these strangers. PISTHETAERUS Oh! great Zeus! what a beautiful little bird! what a dainty form! what brilliant plumage!(1) f(1) The actor, representing Procne, was dressed out as a courtesan, but wore a mask of a bird. EUELPIDES Do you know how dearly I should like to splint her legs for her? PISTHETAERUS She is dazzling all over with gold, like a young girl.(1) f(1) Young unmarried girls wore golden ornaments; the apparel of married women was much simpler. EUELPIDES Oh! how I should like to kiss her! PISTHETAERUS Why, wretched man, she has two little sharp points on her beak! EUELPIDES I would treat her like an egg, the shell of which we remove before eating it; I would take off her mask and then kiss her pretty face. EPOPS Let us go in. PISTHETAERUS Lead the way, and may success attend us. CHORUS Lovable golden bird, whom I cherish above all others, you, whom I associate with all my songs, nightingale, you have come, you have come, to show yourself to me and to charm me with your notes. Come, you, who play spring melodies upon the harmonious flute,(1) lead off our anapaests.(2) Weak mortals, chained to the earth, creatures of clay as frail as the foliage of the woods, you unfortunate race, whose life is but darkness, as unreal as a shadow, the illusion of a dream, hearken to us, who are immortal beings, ethereal, ever young and occupied with eternal thoughts, for we shall teach you about all celestial matters; you shall know thoroughly what is the nature of the birds, what the origin of the gods, of the rivers, of Erebus, and Chaos; thanks to us, even Prodicus(3) will envy you your knowledge. At the beginning there was only Chaos, Night, dark Erebus, and deep Tartarus. Earth, the air and heaven had no existence. Firstly, black-winged Night laid a germless egg in the bosom of the infinite deeps of Erebus, and from this, after the revolution of long ages, sprang the graceful Eros with his glittering golden wings, swift as the whirlwinds of the tempest. He mated in deep Tartarus with dark Chaos, winged like himself, and thus hatched forth our race, which was the first to see the light. That of the Immortals did not exist until Eros had brought together all the ingredients of the world, and from their marriage Heaven, Ocean, Earth and the imperishable race of blessed gods sprang into being. Thus our origin is very much older than that of the dwellers in Olympus. We are the offspring of Eros; there are a thousand proofs to show it. We have wings and we lend assistance to lovers. How many handsome youths, who had sworn to remain insensible, have not been vanquished by our power and have yielded themselves to their lovers when almost at the end of their youth, being led away by the gift of a quail, a waterfowl, a goose, or a cock.(4) And what important services do not the birds render to mortals! First of all, they mark the seasons for them, springtime, winter, and autumn. Does the screaming crane migrate to Libya,--it warns the husbandman to sow, the pilot to take his ease beside his tiller hung up in his dwelling,(5) and Orestes(6) to weave a tunic, so that the rigorous cold may not drive him any more to strip other folk. When the kite reappears, he tells of the return of spring and of the period when the fleece of the sheep must be clipped. Is the swallow in sight? All hasten to sell their warm tunic and to buy some light clothing. We are your Ammon, Delphi, Dodona, your Phoebus Apollo.(7) Before undertaking anything, whether a business transaction, a marriage, or the purchase of food, you consult the birds by reading the omens, and you give this name of omen(8) to all signs that tell of the future. With you a word is an omen, you call a sneeze an omen, a meeting an omen, an unknown sound an omen, a slave or an ass an omen.(9) Is it not clear that we are a prophetic Apollo to you? If you recognize us as gods, we shall be your divining Muses, through us you will know the winds and the seasons, summer, winter, and the temperate months. We shall not withdraw ourselves to the highest clouds like Zeus, but shall be among you and shall give to you and to your children and the children of your children, health and wealth, long life, peace, youth, laughter, songs and feasts; in short, you will all be so well off, that you will be weary and satiated with enjoyment. Oh, rustic Muse of such varied note, tio, tio, tio, tiotinx, I sing with you in the groves and on the mountain tops, tio, tio, tio, tio, tiotinx.(10) I poured forth sacred strains from my golden throat in honour of the god Pan,(11) tio, tio, tio, tiotinx, from the top of the thickly leaved ash, and my voice mingles with the mighty choirs who extol Cybele on the mountain tops,(12) tototototototototinx. 'Tis to our concerts that Phrynichus comes to pillage like a bee the ambrosia of his songs, the sweetness of which so charms the ear, tio, tio, tio, tio, tinx. If there be one of you spectators who wishes to spend the rest of his life quietly among the birds, let him come to us. All that is disgraceful and forbidden by law on earth is on the contrary honourable among us, the birds. For instance, among you 'tis a crime to beat your father, but with us 'tis an estimable deed; it's considered fine to run straight at your father and hit him, saying, "Come, lift your spur if you want to fight."(13) The runaway slave, whom you brand, is only a spotted francolin with us.(14) Are you Phrygian like Spintharus?(15) Among us you would be the Phrygian bird, the goldfinch, of the race of Philemon.(16) Are you a slave and a Carian like Execestides? Among us you can create yourself fore-fathers;(17) you can always find relations. Does the son of Pisias want to betray the gates of the city to the foe? Let him become a partridge, the fitting offspring of his father; among us there is no shame in escaping as cleverly as a partridge. So the swans on the banks of the Hebrus, tio, tio, tio, tio, tiotinx, mingle their voices to serenade Apollo, tio, tio, tio, tio. tiotinx, flapping their wings the while, tio, tio, tio, tio, tiotinx; their notes reach beyond the clouds of heaven; all the dwellers in the forest stand still with astonishment and delight; a calm rests upon the waters, and the Graces and the choirs in Olympus catch up the strain, tio, tio, tio, tio, tiotinx. There is nothing more useful nor more pleasant than to have wings. To begin with, just let us suppose a spectator to be dying with hunger and to be weary of the choruses of the tragic poets; if he were winged, he would fly off, go home to dine and come back with his stomach filled. Some Patroclides in urgent need would not have to soil his cloak, but could fly off, satisfy his requirements, and, having recovered his breath, return. If one of you, it matters not who, had adulterous relations and saw the husband of his mistress in the seats of the senators, he might stretch his wings, fly thither, and, having appeased his craving, resume his place. Is it not the most priceless gift of all, to be winged? Look at Diitrephes!(18) His wings were only wicker-work ones, and yet he got himself chosen Phylarch and then Hipparch; from being nobody, he has risen to be famous; 'tis now the finest gilded cock of his tribe.(19) f(1) The actor, representing Procne, was a flute-player. f(2) The parabasis. f(3) A sophist of the island of Ceos, a disciple of Protagoras, as celebrated for his knowledge as for his eloquence. The Athenians condemned him to death as a corrupter of youth in 396 B.C. f(4) Lovers were wont to make each other presents of birds. The cock and the goose are mentioned, of course, in jest. f(5) i.e. that it gave notice of the approach of winter, during which season the Ancients did not venture to sea. f(6) A notorious robber. f(7) Meaning, "We are your oracles." --Dodona was an oracle in Epirus.--The temple of Zeus there was surrounded by a dense forest, all the trees of which were endowed with the gift of prophecy; both the sacred oaks and the pigeons that lived in them answered the questions of those who came to consult the oracle in pure Greek. f(8) The Greek word for 'omen' is the same as that for 'bird.' f(9) A satire on the passion of the Greeks for seeing an omen in everything. f(10) An imitation of the nightingale's song. f(11) God of the groves and wilds. f(12) The 'Mother of the Gods'; roaming the mountains, she held dances, always attended by Pan and his accompanying rout of Fauns and Satyrs. f(13) An allusion to cock-fighting; the birds are armed with brazen spurs. f(14) An allusion to the spots on this bird, which resemble the scars left by a branding iron. f(15) He was of Asiatic origin, but wished to pass for an Athenian. f(16) Or Philamnon, King of Thrace; the scholiast remarks that the Phrygians and the Thracians had a common origin. f(17) The Greek word here is also the name of a little bird. f(18) A basket-maker who had become rich.--The Phylarchs were the headmen of the tribes. They presided at the private assemblies and were charged with the management of the treasury.--The Hipparchs, as the name implies, were the leaders of the cavalry; there were only two of these in the Athenian army. f(19) He had become a senator. PISTHETAERUS Halloa! What's this? By Zeus! I never saw anything so funny in all my life.(1) f(1) Pisthetaerus and Euelpides now both return with wings. EUELPIDES What makes you laugh? PISTHETAERUS 'Tis your bits of wings. D'you know what you look like? Like a goose painted by some dauber-fellow. EUELPIDES And you look like a close-shaven blackbird. PISTHETAERUS 'Tis ourselves asked for this transformation, and, as Aeschylus has it, "These are no borrowed feathers, but truly our own."(1) f(1) Meaning, 'tis we who wanted to have these wings.--The verse from Aeschylus, quoted here, is taken from 'The Myrmidons,' a tragedy of which only a few fragments remain. EPOPS Come now, what must be done? PISTHETAERUS First give our city a great and famous name, then sacrifice to the gods. EUELPIDES I think so too. EPOPS Let's see. What shall our city be called? PISTHETAERUS Will you have a high-sounding Laconian name? Shall we call it Sparta? EUELPIDES What! call my town Sparta? Why, I would not use esparto for my bed,(1) even though I had nothing but bands of rushes. f(1) The Greek word signified the city of Sparta, and also a kind of broom used for weaving rough matting, which served for the beds of the very poor. PISTHETAERUS Well then, what name can you suggest? EUELPIDES Some name borrowed from the clouds, from these lofty regions in which we dwell--in short, some well-known name. PISTHETAERUS Do you like Nephelococcygia?(1) f(1) A fanciful name constructed from (the word for) a cloud, and (the word for) a cuckoo; thus a city of clouds and cuckoos.--'Wolkenkukelheim' is a clever approximation in German. Cloud-cuckoo-town, perhaps, is the best English equivalent. EPOPS Oh! capital! truly 'tis a brilliant thought! EUELPIDES Is it in Nephelococcygia that all the wealth of Theovenes(1) and most of Aeschines'(2) is? f(1) He was a boaster nicknamed 'smoke,' because he promised a great deal and never kept his word. f(2) Also mentioned in 'The Wasps.' PISTHETAERUS No, 'tis rather the plain of Phlegra,(1) where the gods withered the pride of the sons of the Earth with their shafts. f(1) Because the war of the Titans against the gods was only a fiction of the poets. EUELPIDES Oh! what a splendid city! But what god shall be its patron? for whom shall we weave the peplus?(1) f(1) A sacred cloth, with which the statue of Athene in the Acropolis was draped. PISTHETAERUS Why not choose Athene Polias?(1) f(1) Meaning, to be patron-goddess of the city. Athene had a temple of this name. EUELPIDES Oh! what a well-ordered town 'twould be to have a female deity armed from head to foot, while Clisthenes(1) was spinning! f(1) An Athenian effeminate, frequently ridiculed by Aristophanes. PISTHETAERUS Who then shall guard the Pelargicon?(1) f(1) This was the name of the wall surrounding the Acropolis. EPOPS One of us, a bird of Persian strain, who is everywhere proclaimed to be the bravest of all, a true chick of Ares.(1) f(1) i.e. the fighting cock. EUELPIDES Oh! noble chick! What a well-chosen god for a rocky home! PISTHETAERUS Come! into the air with you to help the workers who are building the wall; carry up rubble, strip yourself to mix the mortar, take up the hod, tumble down the ladder, an you like, post sentinels, keep the fire smouldering beneath the ashes, go round the walls, bell in hand,(1) and go to sleep up there yourself; then d(i)spatch two heralds, one to the gods above, the other to mankind on earth and come back here. f(1) To waken the sentinels, who might else have fallen asleep.--There are several merry contradictions in the various parts of this list of injunctions. EUELPIDES As for yourself, remain here, and may the plague take you for a troublesome fellow! PISTHETAERUS Go, friend, go where I send you, for without you my orders cannot be obeyed. For myself, I want to sacrifice to the new god, and I am going to summon the priest who must preside at the ceremony. Slaves! slaves! bring forward the basket and the lustral water. CHORUS I do as you do, and I wish as you wish, and I implore you to address powerful and solemn prayers to the gods, and in addition to immolate a sheep as a token of our gratitude. Let us sing the Pythian chant in honour of the god, and let Chaeris accompany our voices. PISTHETAERUS (TO THE FLUTE-PLAYER) Enough! but, by Heracles! what is this? Great gods! I have seen many prodigious things, but I never saw a muzzled raven.(1) f(1) In allusion to the leather strap which flute-players wore to constrict the cheeks and add to the power of the breath. The performer here no doubt wore a raven's mask. EPOPS Priest! 'tis high time! Sacrifice to the new gods. PRIEST I begin, but where is he with the basket? Pray to the Vesta of the birds, to the kite, who presides over the hearth, and to all the god and goddess-birds who dwell in Olympus. CHORUS Oh! Hawk, the sacred guardian of Sunium, oh, god of the storks! PRIEST Pray to the swan of Delos, to Latona the mother of the quails, and to Artemis, the goldfinch. PISTHETAERUS 'Tis no longer Artemis Colaenis, but Artemis the goldfinch.(1) f(1) Hellanicus, the Mitylenian historian, tells that this surname of Artemis is derived from Colaenus, King of Athens before Cecrops and a descendant of Hermes. In obedience to an oracle he erected a temple to the goddess, invoking her as Artemis Colaenis (the Artemis of Colaenus). PRIEST And to Bacchus, the finch and Cybele, the ostrich and mother of the gods and mankind. CHORUS Oh! sovereign ostrich, Cybele, The mother of Cleocritus,(1) grant health and safety to the Nephelococcygians as well as to the dwellers in Chios... f(1) This Cleocritus, says the scholiast, was long-necked and strutted like an ostrich. PISTHETAERUS The dwellers in Chios! Ah! I am delighted they should be thus mentioned on all occasions.(1) f(1) The Chians were the most faithful allies of Athens, and hence their name was always mentioned in prayers, decrees, etc. CHORUS ...to the heroes, the birds, to the sons of heroes, to the porphyrion, the pelican, the spoon-bill, the redbreast, the grouse, the peacock, the horned-owl, the teal, the bittern, the heron, the stormy petrel, the fig-pecker, the titmouse... PISTHETAERUS Stop! stop! you drive me crazy with your endless list. Why, wretch, to what sacred feast are you inviting the vultures and the sea-eagles? Don't you see that a single kite could easily carry off the lot at once? Begone, you and your fillets and all; I shall know how to complete the sacrifice by myself. PRIEST It is imperative that I sing another sacred chant for the rite of the lustral water, and that I invoke the immortals, or at least one of them, provided always that you have some suitable food to offer him; from what I see here, in the shape of gifts, there is naught whatever but horn and hair. PISTHETAERUS Let us address our sacrifices and our prayers to the winged gods. A POET Oh, Muse! celebrate happy Nephelococcygia in your hymns. PISTHETAERUS What have we here? Where did you come from, tell me? Who are you? POET I am he whose language is sweeter than honey, the zealous slave of the Muses, as Homer has it. PISTHETAERUS You a slave! and yet you wear your hair long? POET No, but the fact is all we poets are the assiduous slaves of the Muses, according to Homer. PISTHETAERUS In truth your little cloak is quite holy too through zeal! But, poet, what ill wind drove you here? POET I have composed verses in honour of your Nephelococcygia, a host of splendid dithyrambs and parthenians(1) worthy of Simonides himself. f(1) Verses sung by maidens. PISTHETAERUS And when did you compose them? How long since? POET Oh! 'tis long, aye, very long, that I have sung in honour of this city. PISTHETAERUS But I am only celebrating its foundation with this sacrifice;(1) I have only just named it, as is done with little babies. f(1) This ceremony took place on the tenth day after birth, and may be styled the pagan baptism. POET "Just as the chargers fly with the speed of the wind, so does the voice of the Muses take its flight. Oh! thou noble founder of the town of Aetna,(1) thou, whose name recalls the holy sacrifices,(2) make us such gift as thy generous heart shall suggest." f(1) Hiero, tyrant of Syracuse.--This passage is borrowed from Pindar. f(2) (Hiero) in Greek means 'sacrifice.' PISTHETAERUS He will drive us silly if we do not get rid of him by some present. Here! you, who have a fur as well as your tunic, take it off and give it to this clever poet. Come, take this fur; you look to me to be shivering with cold. POET My Muse will gladly accept this gift; but engrave these verses of Pindar's on your mind. PISTHETAERUS Oh! what a pest! 'Tis impossible then to be rid of him! POET "Straton wanders among the Scythian nomads, but has no linen garment. He is sad at only wearing an animal's pelt and no tunic." Do you conceive my bent? PISTHETAERUS I understand that you want me to offer you a tunic. Hi! you (TO EUELPIDES), take off yours; we must help the poet.... Come, you, take it and begone. POET I am going, and these are the verses that I address to this city: "Phoebus of the golden throne, celebrate this shivery, freezing city; I have travelled through fruitful and snow-covered plains. Tralala! Tralala!"(1) f(1) A parody of poetic pathos, not to say bathos. PISTHETAERUS What are you chanting us about frosts? Thanks to the tunic, you no longer fear them. Ah! by Zeus! I could not have believed this cursed fellow could so soon have learnt the way to our city. Come, priest, take the lustral water and circle the altar. PRIEST Let all keep silence! A PROPHET Let not the goat be sacrificed.(1) f(1) Which the priest was preparing to sacrifice. PISTHETAERUS Who are you? PROPHET Who am I? A prophet. PISTHETAERUS Get you gone. PROPHET Wretched man, insult not sacred things. For there is an oracle of Bacis, which exactly applies to Nephelococcygia. PISTHETAERUS Why did you not reveal it to me before I founded my city? PROPHET The divine spirit was against it. PISTHETAERUS Well, 'tis best to know the terms of the oracle. PROPHET "But when the wolves and the white crows shall dwell together between Corinth and Sicyon..." PISTHETAERUS But how do the Corinthians concern me? PROPHET 'Tis the regions of the air that Bacis indicated in this manner. "They must first sacrifice a white-fleeced goat to Pandora, and give the prophet, who first reveals my words, a good cloak and new sandals." PISTHETAERUS Are the sandals there? PROPHET Read. "And besides this a goblet of wine and a good share of the entrails of the victim." PISTHETAERUS Of the entrails--is it so written? PROPHET Read. "If you do as I command, divine youth, you shall be an eagle among the clouds; if not, you shall be neither turtle-dove, nor eagle, nor woodpecker." PISTHETAERUS Is all that there? PROPHET Read. PISTHETAERUS This oracle in no sort of way resembles the one Apollo dictated to me: "If an impostor comes without invitation to annoy you during the sacrifice and to demand a share of the victim, apply a stout stick to his ribs." PROPHET You are drivelling. PISTHETAERUS "And don't spare him, were he an eagle from out of the clouds, were it Lampon(1) himself or the great Diopithes."(2) f(1) Noted Athenian diviner, who, when the power was still shared between Thucydides and Pericles, predicted that it would soon be centred in the hands of the latter; his ground for this prophecy was the sight of a ram with a single horn. f(2) No doubt another Athenian diviner, and possibly the same person whom Aristophanes names in 'The Knights' and 'The Wasps' as being a thief. PROPHET Is all that there? PISTHETAERUS Here, read it yourself, and go and hang yourself. PROPHET Oh! unfortunate wretch that I am. PISTHETAERUS Away with you, and take your prophecies elsewhere. METON(1) I have come to you. f(1) A celebrated geometrician and astronomer. PISTHETAERUS Yet another pest! What have you come to do? What's your plan? What's the purpose of your journey? Why these splendid buskins? METON I want to survey the plains of the air for you and to parcel them into lots. PISTHETAERUS In the name of the gods, who are you? METON Who am I? Meton, known throughout Greece and at Colonus.(1) f(1) A deme contiguous to Athens. It is as though he said, "Well known throughout all England and at Croydon. PISTHETAERUS What are these things? METON Tools for measuring the air. In truth, the spaces in the air have precisely the form of a furnace. With this bent ruler I draw a line from top to bottom; from one of its points I describe a circle with the compass. Do you understand? PISTHETAERUS Not the very least. METON With the straight ruler I set to work to inscribe a square within this circle; in its centre will be the market-place, into which all the straight streets will lead, converging to this centre like a star, which, although only orbicular, sends forth its rays in a straight line from all sides. PISTHETAERUS Meton, you new Thales...(1) f(1) Thales was no less famous as a geometrician than he was as a sage. METON What d'you want with me? PISTHETAERUS I want to give you a proof of my friendship. Use your legs. METON Why, what have I to fear? PISTHETAERUS 'Tis the same here as in Sparta. Strangers are driven away, and blows rain down as thick as hail. METON Is there sedition in your city? PISTHETAERUS No, certainly not. METON What's wrong then? PISTHETAERUS We are agreed to sweep all quacks and impostors far from our borders. METON Then I'm off. PISTHETAERUS I fear 'tis too late. The thunder growls already. (BEATS HIM.) METON Oh, woe! oh, woe! PISTHETAERUS I warned you. Now, be off, and do your surveying somewhere else. (METON TAKES TO HIS HEELS.) AN INSPECTOR Where are the Proxeni?(1) f(1) Officers of Athens, whose duty was to protect strangers who came on political or other business, and see to their interests generally. PISTHETAERUS Who is this Sardanapalus?(1) f(1) He addresses the inspector thus because of the royal and magnificent manners he assumes. INSPECTOR I have been appointed by lot to come to Nephelococcygia as inspector.(1) f(1) Magistrates appointed to inspect the tributary towns. PISTHETAERUS An inspector! and who sends you here, you rascal? INSPECTOR A decree of T(e)leas.(1) f(1) A much-despised citizen, already mentioned. He ironically supposes him invested with the powers of an Archon, which ordinarily were entrusted only to men of good repute. PISTHETAERUS Will you just pocket your salary, do nothing, and be off? INSPECTOR I' faith! that I will; I am urgently needed to be at Athens to attend the assembly; for I am charged with the interests of Pharnaces.(1) f(1) A Persian satrap.--An allusion to certain orators, who, bribed with Asiatic gold, had often defended the interests of the foe in the Public Assembly. PISTHETAERUS Take it then, and be off. See, here is your salary. (BEATS HIM.) INSPECTOR What does this mean? PISTHETAERUS 'Tis the assembly where you have to defend Pharnaces. INSPECTOR You shall testify that they dare to strike me, the inspector. PISTHETAERUS Are you not going to clear out with your urns? 'Tis not to be believed; they send us inspectors before we have so much as paid sacrifice to the gods. A DEALER IN DECREES "If the Nephelococcygian does wrong to the Athenian..." PISTHETAERUS Now whatever are these cursed parchments? DEALER IN DECREES I am a dealer in decrees, and I have come here to sell you the new laws. PISTHETAERUS Which? DEALER IN DECREES "The Nephelococcygians shall adopt the same weights, measures and decrees as the Olophyxians."(1) f(1) A Macedonian people in the peninsula of Chalcidice. This name is chosen because of its similarity to the Greek word (for) 'to groan.' It is from another verb, meaning the same thing, that Pisthetaerus coins the name of Ototyxians, i.e. groaners, because he is about to beat the dealer.--The mother-country had the right to impose any law it chose upon its colonies. PISTHETAERUS And you shall soon be imitating the Ototyxians. (BEATS HIM.) DEALER IN DECREES Hullo! what are you doing? PISTHETAERUS Now will you be off with your decrees? For I am going to let YOU see some severe ones. INSPECTOR (RETURNING) I summon Pisthetaerus for outrage for the month of Munychion.(1) f(1) Corresponding to our month of April. PISTHETAERUS Ha! my friend! are you still there? DEALER IN DECREES "Should anyone drive away the magistrates and not receive them, according to the decree duly posted..." PISTHETAERUS What! rascal! you are there too? INSPECTOR Woe to you! I'll have you condemned to a fine of ten thousand drachmae. PISTHETAERUS And I'll smash your urns.(1) f(1) Which the inspector had brought with him for the purpose of inaugurating the assemblies of the people or some tribunal. INSPECTOR Do you recall that evening when you stooled against the column where the decrees are posted? PISTHETAERUS Here! here! let him be seized. (THE INSPECTOR RUNS OFF.) Well! don't you want to stop any longer? PRIEST Let us get indoors as quick as possible; we will sacrifice the goat inside.(1) f(1) So that the sacrifices might no longer be interrupted. CHORUS Henceforth it is to me that mortals must address their sacrifices and their prayers. Nothing escapes my sight nor my might. My glance embraces the universe, I preserve the fruit in the flower by destroying the thousand kinds of voracious insects the soil produces, which attack the trees and feed on the germ when it has scarcely formed in the calyx; I destroy those who ravage the balmy terrace gardens like a deadly plague; all these gnawing crawling creatures perish beneath the lash of my wing. I hear it proclaimed everywhere: "A talent for him who shall kill Diagoras of Melos,(1) and a talent for him who destroys one of the dead tyrants."(2) We likewise wish to make our proclamation: "A talent to him among you who shall kill Philocrates, the Struthian;(3) four, if he brings him to us alive. For this Philocrates skewers the finches together and sells them at the rate of an obolus for seven. He tortures the thrushes by blowing them out, so that they may look bigger, sticks their own feathers into the nostrils of blackbirds, and collects pigeons, which he shuts up and forces them, fastened in a net, to decoy others." That is what we wish to proclaim. And if anyone is keeping birds shut up in his yard, let him hasten to let them loose; those who disobey shall be seized by the birds and we shall put them in chains, so that in their turn they may decoy other men. Happy indeed is the race of winged birds who need no cloak in winter! Neither do I fear the relentless rays of the fiery dog-days; when the divine grasshopper, intoxicated with the sunlight, when noon is burning the ground, is breaking out into shrill melody; my home is beneath the foliage in the flowery meadows. I winter in deep caverns, where I frolic with the mountain nymphs, while in spring I despoil the gardens of the Graces and gather the white, virgin berry on the myrtle bushes. I want now to speak to the judges about the prize they are going to award; if they are favourable to us, we will load them with benefits far greater than those Paris(4) received. Firstly, the owls of Laurium,(5) which every judge desires above all things, shall never be wanting to you; you shall see them homing with you, building their nests in your money-bags and laying coins. Besides, you shall be housed like the gods, for we shall erect gables(6) over your dwellings; if you hold some public post and want to do a little pilfering, we will give you the sharp claws of a hawk. Are you dining in town, we will provide you with crops.(7) But, if your award is against us, don't fail to have metal covers fashioned for yourselves, like those they place over statues;(8) else, look out! for the day you wear a white tunic all the birds will soil it with their droppings. f(1) A disciple of Democrites; he passed over from superstition to atheism. The injustice and perversity of mankind led him to deny the existence of the gods, to lay bare the mysteries and to break the idols. The Athenians had put a price on his head, so he left Greece and perished soon afterwards in a storm at sea. f(2) By this jest Aristophanes means to imply that tyranny is dead, and that no one aspires to despotic power, though this silly accusation was constantly being raised by the demagogues and always favourably received by the populace. f(3) A poulterer.--Strouthian, used in joke to designate him, as if from the name of his 'deme,' is derived from (the Greek for) 'a sparrow.' The birds' foe is thus grotesquely furnished with an ornithological surname. f(4) From Aphrodite (Venus), to whom he had awarded the apple, prize of beauty, in the contest of the "goddesses three." f(5) Laurium was an Athenian deme at the extremity of the Attic peninsula containing valuable silver mines, the revenues of which were largely employed in the maintenance of the fleet and payment of the crews. The "owls of Laurium," of course, mean pieces of money; the Athenian coinage was stamped with a representation of an owl, the bird of Athene. f(6) A pun, impossible to keep in English, on the two meanings of (the Greek) word which signifies both an eagle and the gable of a house or pediment of a temple. f(7) That is, birds' crops, into which they could stow away plenty of good things. f(8) The Ancients appear to have placed metal discs over statues standing in the open air, to save them from injury from the weather, etc. PISTHETAERUS Birds! the sacrifice is propitious. But I see no messenger coming from the wall to tell us what is happening. Ah! here comes one running himself out of breath as though he were running the Olympic stadium. MESSENGER Where, where is he? Where, where, where is he? Where, where, where is he? Where is Pisthetaerus, our leader? PISTHETAERUS Here am I. MESSENGER The wall is finished. PISTHETAERUS That's good news. MESSENGER 'Tis a most beautiful, a most magnificent work of art. The wall is so broad that Proxenides, the Braggartian, and Theogenes could pass each other in their chariots, even if they were drawn by steeds as big as the Trojan horse. PISTHETAERUS 'Tis wonderful! MESSENGER Its length is one hundred stadia; I measured it myself. PISTHETAERUS A decent length, by Posidon! And who built such a wall? MESSENGER Birds--birds only; they had neither Egyptian brickmaker, nor stone-mason, nor carpenter; the birds did it all themselves; I could hardly believe my eyes. Thirty thousand cranes came from Libya with a supply of stones,(1) intended for the foundations. The water-rails chiselled them with their beaks. Ten thousand storks were busy making bricks; plovers and other water fowl carried water into the air. f(1) So as not to be carried away by the wind when crossing the sea, cranes are popularly supposed to ballast themselves with stones, which they carry in their beaks. PISTHETAERUS And who carried the mortar? MESSENGER Herons, in hods. PISTHETAERUS But how could they put the mortar into hods? MESSENGER Oh! 'twas a truly clever invention; the geese used their feet like spades; they buried them in the pile of mortar and then emptied them into the hods. PISTHETAERUS Ah! to what use cannot feet be put?(1) f(1) Pisthetaerus modifies the Greek proverbial saying, "To what use cannot hands be put?" MESSENGER You should have seen how eagerly the ducks carried bricks. To complete the tale, the swallows came flying to the work, their beaks full of mortar and their trowel on their back, just the way little children are carried. PISTHETAERUS Who would want paid servants after this? But tell me, who did the woodwork? MESSENGER Birds again, and clever carpenters too, the pelicans, for they squared up the gates with their beaks in such a fashion that one would have thought they were using axes; the noise was just like a dockyard. Now the whole wall is tight everywhere, securely bolted and well guarded; it is patrolled, bell in hand; the sentinels stand everywhere and beacons burn on the towers. But I must run off to clean myself; the rest is your business. CHORUS Well! what do you say to it? Are you not astonished at the wall being completed so quickly? PISTHETAERUS By the gods, yes, and with good reason. 'Tis really not to be believed. But here comes another messenger from the wall to bring us some further news! What a fighting look he has! SECOND MESSENGER Oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! oh! PISTHETAERUS What's the matter? SECOND MESSENGER A horrible outrage has occurred; a god sent by Zeus has passed through our gates and has penetrated the realms of the air without the knowledge of the jays, who are on guard in the daytime. PISTHETAERUS 'Tis an unworthy and criminal deed. What god was it? SECOND MESSENGER We don't know that. All we know is, that he has got wings. PISTHETAERUS Why were not guards sent against him at once? SECOND MESSENGER We have d(i)spatched thirty thousand hawks of the legion of Mounted Archers.(1) All the hook-clawed birds are moving against him, the kestrel, the buzzard, the vulture, the great-horned owl; they cleave the air, so that it resounds with the flapping of their wings; they are looking everywhere for the god, who cannot be far away; indeed, if I mistake not, he is coming from yonder side. f(1) A corps of Athenian cavalry was so named. PISTHETAERUS All arm themselves with slings and bows! This way, all our soldiers; shoot and strike! Some one give me a sling! CHORUS War, a terrible war is breaking out between us and the gods! Come, let each one guard Air, the son of Erebus,(1) in which the clouds float. Take care no immortal enters it without your knowledge. Scan all sides with your glance. Hark! methinks I can hear the rustle of the swift wings of a god from heaven. f(1) Chaos, Night, Tartarus, and Erebus alone existed in the beginning; Eros was born from Night and Erebus, and he wedded Chaos and begot Earth, Air, and Heaven; so runs the fable. PISTHETAERUS Hi! you woman! where are you flying to? Halt, don't stir! keep motionless! not a beat of your wing!--Who are you and from what country? You must say whence you come.(1) f(1) Iris appears from the top of the stage and arrests her flight in mid-career. IRIS I come from the abode of the Olympian gods. PISTHETAERUS What's your name, ship or cap?(1) f(1) Ship, because of her wings, which resemble oars; cap, because she no doubt wore the head-dress (as a messenger of the gods) with which Hermes is generally depicted. IRIS I am swift Iris. PISTHETAERUS Paralus or Salaminia?(1) f(1) The names of the two sacred galleys which carried Athenian officials on State business. IRIS What do you mean? PISTHETAERUS Let a buzzard rush at her and seize her.(1) f(1) A buzzard is named in order to raise a laugh, the Greek name also meaning, etymologically, provided with three testicles, vigorous in love. IRIS Seize me! But what do all these insults mean? PISTHETAERUS Woe to you! IRIS 'Tis incomprehensible. PISTHETAERUS By which gate did you pass through the wall, wretched woman? IRIS By which gate? Why, great gods, I don't know. PISTHETAERUS You hear how she holds us in derision. Did you present yourself to the officers in command of the jays? You don't answer. Have you a permit, bearing the seal of the storks? IRIS Am I awake? PISTHETAERUS Did you get one? IRIS Are you mad? PISTHETAERUS No head-bird gave you a safe-conduct? IRIS A safe-conduct to me, you poor fool! PISTHETAERUS Ah! and so you slipped into this city on the sly and into these realms of air-land that don't belong to you. IRIS And what other roads can the gods travel? PISTHETAERUS By Zeus! I know nothing about that, not I. But they won't pass this way. And you still dare to complain! Why, if you were treated according to your deserts, no Iris would ever have more justly suffered death. IRIS I am immortal. PISTHETAERUS You would have died nevertheless.--Oh! 'twould be truly intolerable! What! should the universe obey us and the gods alone continue their insolence and not understand that they must submit to the law of the strongest in their due turn? But tell me, where are you flying to? IRIS I? The messenger of Zeus to mankind, I am going to tell them to sacrifice sheep and oxen on the altars and to fill their streets with the rich smoke of burning fat. PISTHETAERUS Of which gods are you speaking? IRIS Of which? Why, of ourselves, the gods of heaven. PISTHETAERUS You, gods? IRIS Are there others then? PISTHETAERUS Men now adore the birds as gods, and 'tis to them, by Zeus, that they must offer sacrifices, and not to Zeus at all! IRIS Oh! fool! fool! Rouse not the wrath of the gods, for 'tis terrible indeed. Armed with the brand of Zeus, Justice would annihilate your race; the lightning would strike you as it did Licymnius and consume both your body and the porticos of your palace.(1) f(1) Iris' reply is a parody of the tragic style.--'Lycimnius' is, according to the scholiast, the title of a tragedy by Euripides, which is about a ship that is struck by lightning. PISTHETAERUS Here! that's enough tall talk. Just you listen and keep quiet! Do you take me for a Lydian or a Phrygian(1) and think to frighten me with your big words? Know, that if Zeus worries me again, I shall go at the head of my eagles, who are armed with lightning, and reduce his dwelling and that of Amphion to cinders.(2) I shall send more than six hundred porphyrions clothed in leopards' skins(3) up to heaven against him; and formerly a single Porphyrion gave him enough to do. As for you, his messenger, if you annoy me, I shall begin by stretching your legs asunder, and so conduct myself, Iris though you be, that despite my age, you will be astonished. I will show you something that will make you three times over. f(1) i.e. for a poltroon, like the slaves, most of whom came to Athens from these countries. f(2) A parody of a passage in the lost tragedy of 'Niobe' of Aeschylus. f(3) Because this bird has a spotted plumage.--Porphyrion is also the name of one of the Titans who tried to storm heave. IRIS May you perish, you wretch, you and your infamous words! PISTHETAERUS Won't you be off quickly? Come, stretch your wings or look out for squalls! IRIS If my father does not punish you for your insults... PISTHETAERUS Ha!... but just you be off elsewhere to roast younger folk than us with your lightning. CHORUS We forbid the gods, the sons of Zeus, to pass through our city and the mortals to send them the smoke of their sacrifices by this road. PISTHETAERUS 'Tis odd that the messenger we sent to the mortals has never returned. HERALD Oh! blessed Pisthetaerus, very wise, very illustrious, very gracious, thrice happy, very... Come, prompt me, somebody, do. PISTHETAERUS Get to your story! HERALD All peoples are filled with admiration for your wisdom, and they award you this golden crown. PISTHETAERUS I accept it. But tell me, why do the people admire me? HERALD Oh you, who have founded so illustrious a city in the air, you know not in what esteem men hold you and how many there are who burn with desire to dwell in it. Before your city was built, all men had a mania for Sparta; long hair and fasting were held in honour, men went dirty like Socrates and carried staves. Now all is changed. Firstly, as soon as 'tis dawn, they all spring out of bed together to go and seek their food, the same as you do; then they fly off towards the notices and finally devour the decrees. The bird-madness is so clear, that many actually bear the names of birds. There is a halting victualler, who styles himself the partridge; Menippus calls himself the swallow; Opuntius the one-eyed crow; Philocles the lark; Theogenes the fox-goose; Lycurgus the ibis; Chaerephon the bat; Syracosius the magpie; Midias the quail;(1) indeed he looks like a quail that has been hit hard over the head. Out of love for the birds they repeat all the songs which concern the swallow, the teal, the goose or the pigeon; in each verse you see wings, or at all events a few feathers. This is what is happening down there. Finally, there are more than ten thousand folk who are coming here from earth to ask you for feathers and hooked claws; so, mind you supply yourself with wings for the immigrants. f(1) All these surnames bore some relation to the character or the build of the individual to whom the poet applies them.--Chaerephon, Socrates' disciple, was of white and ashen hue.--Opuntius was one-eyed.--Syracosius was a braggart.--Midias had a passion for quail-fights, and, besides, resembled that bird physically. PISTHETAERUS Ah! by Zeus, 'tis not the time for idling. Go as quick as possible and fill every hamper, every basket you can find with wings. Manes(1) will bring them to me outside the walls, where I will welcome those who present themselves. f(1) Pisthetaerus' servant, already mentioned. CHORUS This town will soon be inhabited by a crowd of men. PISTHETAERUS If fortune favours us. CHORUS Folk are more and more delighted with it. PISTHETAERUS Come, hurry up and bring them along. CHORUS Will not man find here everything that can please him--wisdom, love, the divine Graces, the sweet face of gentle peace? PISTHETAERUS Oh! you lazy servant! won't you hurry yourself? CHORUS Let a basket of wings be brought speedily. Come, beat him as I do, and put some life into him; he is as lazy as an ass. PISTHETAERUS Aye, Manes is a great craven. CHORUS Begin by putting this heap of wings in order; divide them in three parts according to the birds from whom they came; the singing, the prophetic(1) and the aquatic birds; then you must take care to distribute them to the men according to their character. f(1) From the inspection of which auguries were taken, e.g. the eagles, the vultures, the crows. PISTHETAERUS (TO MANES) Oh! by the kestrels! I can keep my hands off you no longer; you are too slow and lazy altogether. A PARRICIDE(1) Oh! might I but become an eagle, who soars in the skies! Oh! might I fly above the azure waves of the barren sea!(2) f(1) Or rather, a young man who contemplated parricide. f(2) A parody of verses in Sophocles 'Oenomaus.' PISTHETAERUS Ha! 'twould seem the news was true; I hear someone coming who talks of wings. PARRICIDE Nothing is more charming than to fly; I burn with desire to live under the same laws as the birds; I am bird-mad and fly towards you, for I want to live with you and to obey your laws. PISTHETAERUS Which laws? The birds have many laws. PARRICIDE All of them; but the one that pleases me most is, that among the birds it is considered a fine thing to peck and strangle one's father. PISTHETAERUS Aye, by Zeus! according to us, he who dares to strike his father, while still a chick, is a brave fellow. PARRICIDE And therefore I want to dwell here, for I want to strangle my father and inherit his wealth. PISTHETAERUS But we have also an ancient law written in the code of the storks, which runs thus, "When the stork father has reared his young and has taught them to fly, the young must in their turn support the father." PARRICIDE 'Tis hardly worth while coming all this distance to be compelled to keep my father! PISTHETAERUS No, no, young friend, since you have come to us with such willingness, I am going to give you these black wings, as though you were an orphan bird; furthermore, some good advice, that I received myself in infancy. Don't strike your father, but take these wings in one hand and these spurs in the other; imagine you have a cock's crest on your head and go and mount guard and fight; live on your pay and respect your father's life. You're a gallant fellow! Very well, then! Fly to Thrace and fight.(1) f(1) The Athenians were then besieging Amphipolis in the Thracian Chalcidice. PARRICIDE By Bacchus! 'Tis well spoken; I will follow your counsel. PISTHETAERUS 'Tis acting wisely, by Zeus. CINESIAS(1) "On my light pinions I soar off to Olympus; in its capricious flight my Muse flutters along the thousand paths of poetry in turn..." f(1) There was a real Cinesias--a dythyrambic poet born at Thebes. PISTHETAERUS This is a fellow will need a whole shipload of wings. CINESIAS (singing) "...and being fearless and vigorous, it is seeking fresh outlet." PISTHETAERUS Welcome, Cinesias, you lime-wood man!(1) Why have you come here a-twisting your game leg in circles? f(1) The scholiast thinks that Cinesias, who was tall and slight of build, wore a kind of corset of lime-wood to support his waist--surely rather a far-fetched interpretation! CINESIAS "I want to become a bird, a tuneful nightingale." PISTHETAERUS Enough of that sort of ditty. Tell me what you want. CINESIAS Give me wings and I will fly into the topmost airs to gather fresh songs in the clouds, in the midst of the vapours and the fleecy snow. PISTHETAERUS Gather songs in the clouds? CINESIAS 'Tis on them the whole of our latter-day art depends. The most brilliant dithyrambs are those that flap their wings in void space and are clothed in mist and dense obscurity. To appreciate this, just listen. PISTHETAERUS Oh! no, no, no! CINESIAS By Hermes! but indeed you shall. "I shall travel through thine ethereal empire like a winged bird, who cleaveth space with his long neck..." PISTHETAERUS Stop! easy all, I say!(1) f(1) The Greek word used here was the word of command employed to stop the rowers. CINESIAS "...as I soar over the seas, carried by the breath of the winds..." PISTHETAERUS By Zeus! but I'll cut your breath short. CINESIAS "...now rushing along the tracks of Notus, now nearing Boreas across the infinite wastes of the ether." (PISTHETAERUS BEATS HIM.) Ah! old man, that's a pretty and clever idea truly! PISTHETAERUS What! are you not delighted to be cleaving the air?(1) f(1) Cinesias makes a bound each time that Pisthetaerus strikes him. CINESIAS To treat a dithyrambic poet, for whom the tribes dispute with each other, in this style!(1) f(1) The tribes of Athens, or rather the rich citizens belonging to them, were wont on feast-days to give representations of dithyrambic choruses as well as of tragedies and comedies. PISTHETAERUS Will you stay with us and form a chorus of winged birds as slender as Leotrophides(1) for the Cecropid tribe? f(1) Another dithyrambic poet, a man of extreme leanness. CINESIAS You are making game of me, 'tis clear; but know that I shall never leave you in peace if I do not have wings wherewith to traverse the air. AN INFORMER What are these birds with downy feathers, who look so pitiable to me? Tell me, oh swallow with the long dappled wings.(1) f(1) A parody of a hemistich from 'Alcaeus.'--The informer is dissatisfied at only seeing birds of sombre plumage and poor appearance. He would have preferred to denounce the rich. PISTHETAERUS Oh! but 'tis a regular invasion that threatens us. Here comes another of them, humming along. INFORMER Swallow with the long dappled wings, once more I summon you. PISTHETAERUS It's his cloak I believe he's addressing; 'faith, it stands in great need of the swallows' return.(1) f(1) The informer, says the scholiast, was clothed with a ragged cloak, the tatters of which hung down like wings, in fact, a cloak that could not protect him from the cold and must have made him long for the swallows' return, i.e. the spring. INFORMER Where is he who gives out wings to all comers? PISTHETAERUS 'Tis I, but you must tell me for what purpose you want them. INFORMER Ask no questions. I want wings, and wings I must have. PISTHETAERUS Do you want to fly straight to Pellene?(1) f(1) A town in Achaia, where woollen cloaks were made. INFORMER I? Why, I am an accuser of the islands,(1) an informer... f(1) His trade was to accuse the rich citizens of the subject islands, and drag them before the Athenian court; he explains later the special advantages of this branch of the informer's business. PISTHETAERUS A fine trade, truly! INFORMER ...a hatcher of lawsuits. Hence I have great need of wings to prowl round the cities and drag them before justice. PISTHETAERUS Would you do this better if you had wings? INFORMER No, but I should no longer fear the pirates; I should return with the cranes, loaded with a supply of lawsuits by way of ballast. PISTHETAERUS So it seems, despite all your youthful vigour, you make it your trade to denounce strangers? INFORMER Well, and why not? I don't know how to dig. PISTHETAERUS But, by Zeus! there are honest ways of gaining a living at your age without all this infamous trickery. INFORMER My friend, I am asking you for wings, not for words. PISTHETAERUS 'Tis just my words that give you wings. INFORMER And how can you give a man wings with your words? PISTHETAERUS 'Tis thus that all first start. INFORMER All? PISTHETAERUS Have you not often heard the father say to young men in the barbers' shops, "It's astonishing how Diitrephes' advice has made my son fly to horse-riding."--"Mine," says another, "has flown towards tragic poetry on the wings of his imagination." INFORMER So that words give wings? PISTHETAERUS Undoubtedly; words give wings to the mind and make a man soar to heaven. Thus I hope that my wise words will give you wings to fly to some less degrading trade. INFORMER But I do not want to. PISTHETAERUS What do you reckon on doing then? INFORMER I won't belie my breeding; from generation to generation we have lived by informing. Quick, therefore, give me quickly some light, swift hawk or kestrel wings, so that I may summon the islanders, sustain the accusation here, and haste back there again on flying pinions. PISTHETAERUS I see. In this way the stranger will be condemned even before he appears. INFORMER That's just it. PISTHETAERUS And while he is on his way here by sea, you will be flying to the islands to despoil him of his property. INFORMER You've hit it, precisely; I must whirl hither and thither like a perfect humming-top. PISTHETAERUS I catch the idea. Wait, i' faith, I've got some fine Corcyraean wings.(1) How do you like them? f(1) That is, whips--Corcyra being famous for these articles. INFORMER Oh! woe is me! Why, 'tis a whip! PISTHETAERUS No, no; these are the wings, I tell you, that set the top a-spinning. INFORMER Oh! oh! oh! PISTHETAERUS Take your flight, clear off, you miserable cur, or you will soon see what comes of quibbling and lying. Come, let us gather up our wings and withdraw. CHORUS In my ethereal flights I have seen many things new and strange and wondrous beyond belief. There is a tree called Cleonymus belonging to an unknown species; it has no heart, is good for nothing and is as tall as it is cowardly. In springtime it shoots forth calumnies instead of buds and in autumn it strews the ground with bucklers in place of leaves.(1) Far away in the regions of darkness, where no ray of light ever enters, there is a country, where men sit at the table of the heroes and dwell with them always--save always in the evening. Should any mortal meet the hero Orestes at night, he would soon be stripped and covered with blows from head to foot.(2) f(1) Cleonymous is a standing butt of Aristophanes' wit, both as an informer and a notorious poltroon. f(2) In allusion to the cave of the bandit Orestes; the poet terms him a hero only because of his heroic name Orestes. PROMETHEUS Ah! by the gods! if only Zeus does not espy me! Where is Pisthetaerus? PISTHETAERUS Ha! what is this? A masked man! PROMETHEUS Can you see any god behind me? PISTHETAERUS No, none. But who are you, pray? PROMETHEUS What's the time, please? PISTHETAERUS The time? Why, it's past noon. Who are you? PROMETHEUS Is it the fall of day? Is it no later than that?(1) f(1) Prometheus wants night to come and so reduce the risk of being seen from Olympus. PISTHETAERUS Oh! 'pon my word! but you grow tiresome. PROMETHEUS What is Zeus doing? Is he dispersing the clouds or gathering them?(1) f(1) The clouds would prevent Zeus seeing what was happening below him. PISTHETAERUS Take care, lest I lose all patience. PROMETHEUS Come, I will raise my mask. PISTHETAERUS Ah! my dear Prometheus! PROMETHEUS Stop! stop! speak lower! PISTHETAERUS Why, what's the matter, Prometheus? PROMETHEUS H'sh! h'sh! Don't call me by my name; you will be my ruin, if Zeus should see me here. But, if you want me to tell you how things are going in heaven, take this umbrella and shield me, so that the gods don't see me. PISTHETAERUS I can recognize Prometheus in this cunning trick. Come, quick then, and fear nothing; speak on. PROMETHEUS Then listen. PISTHETAERUS I am listening, proceed! PROMETHEUS It's all over with Zeus. PISTHETAERUS Ah! and since when, pray? PROMETHEUS Since you founded this city in the air. There is not a man who now sacrifices to the gods; the smoke of the victims no longer reaches us. Not the smallest offering comes! We fast as though it were the festival of Demeter.(1) The barbarian gods, who are dying of hunger, are bawling like Illyrians(2) and threaten to make an armed descent upon Zeus, if he does not open markets where joints of the victims are sold. f(1) The third day of the festival of Demeter was a fast. f(2) A semi-savage people, addicted to violence and brigandage. PISTHETAERUS What! there are other gods besides you, barbarian gods who dwell above Olympus? PROMETHEUS If there were no barbarian gods, who would be the patron of Execestides?(1) f(1) Who, being reputed a stranger despite his pretension to the title of a citizen, could only have a strange god for his patron or tutelary deity. PISTHETAERUS And what is the name of these gods? PROMETHEUS Their name? Why, the Triballi.(1) f(1) The Triballi were a Thracian people; it was a term commonly used in Athens to describe coarse men, obscene debauchees and greedy parasites. PISTHETAERUS Ah, indeed! 'tis from that no doubt that we derive the word 'tribulation.'(1) f(1) There is a similar pun in the Greek. PROMETHEUS Most likely. But one thing I can tell you for certain, namely, that Zeus and the celestial Triballi are going to send deputies here to sue for peace. Now don't you treat, unless Zeus restores the sceptre to the birds and gives you Basileia(1) in marriage. f(1) i.e. the 'supremacy' of Greece, the real object of the war. PISTHETAERUS Who is this Basileia? PROMETHEUS A very fine young damsel, who makes the lightning for Zeus; all things come from her, wisdom, good laws, virtue, the fleet, calumnies, the public paymaster and the triobolus. PISTHETAERUS Ah! then she is a sort of general manageress to the god. PROMETHEUS Yes, precisely. If he gives you her for your wife, yours will be the almighty power. That is what I have come to tell you; for you know my constant and habitual goodwill towards men. PISTHETAERUS Oh, yes! 'tis thanks to you that we roast our meat.(1) f(1) Prometheus had stolen the fire from the gods to gratify mankind. PROMETHEUS I hate the gods, as you know. PISTHETAERUS Aye, by Zeus, you have always detested them. PROMETHEUS Towards them I am a veritable Timon;(1) but I must return in all haste, so give me the umbrella; if Zeus should see me from up there, he would think I was escorting one of the Canephori.(2) f(1) A celebrated misanthrope, contemporary to Aristophanes. Hating the society of men, he had only a single friend, Apimantus, to whom he was attached, because of their similarity of character; he also liked Alcibiades, because he foresaw that this young man would be the ruin of his country. f(2) The Canephori were young maidens, chosen from the first families of the city, who carried baskets wreathed with myrtle at the feast of Athene, while at those of Bacchus and Demeter they appeared with gilded baskets.--The daughters of 'Metics,' or resident aliens, walked behind them, carrying an umbrella and a stool. PISTHETAERUS Wait, take this stool as well. CHORUS Near by the land of the Sciapodes(1) there is a marsh, from the borders whereof the odious Socrates evokes the souls of men. Pisander(2) came one day to see his soul, which he had left there when still alive. He offered a little victim, a camel,(3) slit his throat and, following the example of Ulysses, stepped one pace backwards.(4) Then that bat of a Chaerephon(5) came up from hell to drink the camel's blood. f(1) According to Ctesias, the Sciapodes were a people who dwelt on the borders of the Atlantic. Their feet were larger than the rest of their bodies, and to shield themselves from the sun's rays they held up one of their feet as an umbrella.--By giving the Socratic philosophers the name of Sciapodes here Aristophanes wishes to convey that they are walking in the dark and busying themselves with the greatest nonsense. f(2) This Pisander was a notorious coward; for this reason the poet jestingly supposes that he had lost his soul, the seat of courage. f(3) Considering the shape and height of the camel, (it) can certainly not be included in the list of SMALL victims, e.g. the sheep and the goat. f(4) In the evocation of the dead, Book XI of the Odyssey. f(5) Chaerephon was given this same title by the Herald earlier in this comedy.--Aristophanes supposes him to have come from hell because he is lean and pallid. POSIDON(1) This is the city of Nephelococcygia, Cloud-cuckoo-town, whither we come as ambassadors. (TO TRIBALLUS) Hi! what are you up to? you are throwing your cloak over the left shoulder. Come, fling it quick over the right! And why, pray, does it draggle in this fashion? Have you ulcers to hide like Laespodias?(2) Oh! democracy!(3) whither, oh! whither are you leading us? Is it possible that the gods have chosen such an envoy? f(1) Posidon appears on the stage accompanied by Heracles and a Triballian god. f(2) An Athenian general.--Neptune is trying to give Triballus some notions of elegance and good behaviour. f(3) Aristophanes supposes that democracy is in the ascendant in Olympus as it is in Athens. TRIBALLUS Leave me alone. POSIDON Ugh! the cursed savage! you are by far the most barbarous of all the gods.--Tell me, Heracles, what are we going to do? HERACLES I have already told you that I want to strangle the fellow who has dared to block us in. POSIDON But, my friend, we are envoys of peace. HERACLES All the more reason why I wish to strangle him. PISTHETAERUS Hand me the cheese-grater; bring me the silphium for sauce; pass me the cheese and watch the coals.(1) f(1) He is addressing his servant, Manes. HERACLES Mortal! we who greet you are three gods. PISTHETAERUS Wait a bit till I have prepared my silphium pickle. HERACLES What are these meats?(1) f(1) Heracles softens at sight of the food.--Heracles is the glutton of the comic poets. PISTHETAERUS These are birds that have been punished with death for attacking the people's friends. HERACLES And you are seasoning them before answering us? PISTHETAERUS Ah! Heracles! welcome, welcome! What's the matter?(1) f(1) He pretends not to have seen them at first, being so much engaged with his cookery. HERACLES The gods have sent us here as ambassadors to treat for peace. A SERVANT There's no more oil in the flask. PISTHETAERUS And yet the birds must be thoroughly basted with it.(1) f(1) He pretends to forget the presence of the ambassadors. HERACLES We have no interest to serve in fighting you; as for you, be friends and we promise that you shall always have rain-water in your pools and the warmest of warm weather. So far as these points go we are armed with plenary authority. PISTHETAERUS We have never been the aggressors, and even now we are as well disposed for peace as yourselves, provided you agree to one equitable condition, namely, that Zeus yield his sceptre to the birds. If only this is agreed to, I invite the ambassadors to dinner. HERACLES That's good enough for me. I vote for peace. POSIDON You wretch! you are nothing but a fool and a glutton. Do you want to dethrone your own father? PISTHETAERUS What an error! Why, the gods will be much more powerful if the birds govern the earth. At present the mortals are hidden beneath the clouds, escape your observation, and commit perjury in your name; but if you had the birds for your allies, and a man, after having sworn by the crow and Zeus, should fail to keep his oath, the crow would dive down upon him unawares and pluck out his eye. POSIDON Well thought of, by Posidon!(1) f(1) Posidon jestingly swears by himself. HERACLES My notion too. PISTHETAERUS (TO THE TRIBALLIAN) And you, what's your opinion? TRIBALLUS Nabaisatreu.(1) f(1) The barbarian god utters some gibberish which Pisthetaerus interprets into consent. PISTHETAERUS D'you see? he also approves. But hear another thing in which we can serve you. If a man vows to offer a sacrifice to some god, and then procrastinates, pretending that the gods can wait, and thus does not keep his word, we shall punish his stinginess. POSIDON Ah! ah! and how? PISTHETAERUS While he is counting his money or is in the bath, a kite will relieve him, before he knows it, either in coin or in clothes, of the value of a couple of sheep, and carry it to the god. HERACLES I vote for restoring them the sceptre. POSIDON Ask the Triballian. HERACLES Hi Triballian, do you want a thrashing? TRIBALLUS Saunaka baktarikrousa. HERACLES He says, "Right willingly." POSIDON If that be the opinion of both of you, why, I consent too. HERACLES Very well! we accord the sceptre. PISTHETAERUS Ah! I was nearly forgetting another condition. I will leave Here to Zeus, but only if the young Basileia is given me in marriage. POSIDON Then you don't want peace. Let us withdraw. PISTHETAERUS It matters mighty little to me. Cook, look to the gravy. HERACLES What an odd fellow this Posidon is! Where are you off to? Are we going to war about a woman? POSIDON What else is there to do? HERACLES What else? Why, conclude peace. POSIDON Oh! you ninny! do you always want to be fooled? Why, you are seeking your own downfall. If Zeus were to die, after having yielded them the sovereignty, you would be ruined, for you are the heir of all the wealth he will leave behind. PISTHETAERUS Oh! by the gods! how he is cajoling you. Step aside, that I may have a word with you. Your uncle is getting the better of you, my poor friend.(1) The law will not allow you an obolus of the paternal property, for you are a bastard and not a legitimate child. f(1) Heracles, the god of strength, was far from being remarkable in the way of cleverness. HERACLES I a bastard! What's that you tell me? PISTHETAERUS Why, certainly; are you not born of a stranger woman? Besides, is not Athene recognized as Zeus' sole heiress? And no daughter would be that, if she had a legitimate brother. HERACLES But what if my father wished to give me his property on his death-bed, even though I be a bastard? PISTHETAERUS The law forbids it, and this same Posidon would be the first to lay claim to his wealth, in virtue of being his legitimate brother. Listen; thus runs Solon's law: "A bastard shall not inherit, if there are legitimate children; and if there are no legitimate children, the property shall pass to the nearest kin."(1) f(1) This was Athenian law. HERACLES And I get nothing whatever of the paternal property? PISTHETAERUS Absolutely nothing. But tell me, has your father had you entered on the registers of his phratria?(1) f(1) The poet attributes to the gods the same customs as those which governed Athens, and according to which no child was looked upon as legitimate unless his father had entered him on the registers of his phratria. The phratria was a division of the tribe and consisted of thirty families. HERACLES No, and I have long been surprised at the omission. PISTHETAERUS What ails you, that you should shake your fist at heaven? Do you want to fight it? Why, be on my side, I will make you a king and will feed you on bird's milk and honey. HERACLES Your further condition seems fair to me. I cede you the young damsel. POSIDON But I, I vote against this opinion. PISTHETAERUS Then it all depends on the Triballian. (TO THE TRIBALLIAN.) What do you say? TRIBALLUS Big bird give daughter pretty and queen. HERACLES You say that you give her? POSIDON Why no, he does not say anything of the sort, that he gives her; else I cannot understand any better than the swallows. PISTHETAERUS Exactly so. Does he not say she must be given to the swallows? POSIDON Very well! you two arrange the matter; make peace, since you wish it so; I'll hold my tongue. HERACLES We are of a mind to grant you all that you ask. But come up there with us to receive Basileia and the celestial bounty. PISTHETAERUS Here are birds already cut up, and very suitable for a nuptial feast. HERACLES You go and, if you like, I will stay here to roast them. PISTHETAERUS You to roast them! you are too much the glutton; come along with us. HERACLES Ah! how well I would have treated myself! PISTHETAERUS Let some(one) bring me a beautiful and magnificent tunic for the wedding. CHORUS(1) At Phanae,(2) near the Clepsydra,(3) there dwells a people who have neither faith nor law, the Englottogastors,(4) who reap, sow, pluck the vines and the figs(5) with their tongues; they belong to a barbaric race, and among them the Philippi and the Gorgiases(6) are to be found; 'tis these Englottogastorian Philippi who introduced the custom all over Attica of cutting out the tongue separately at sacrifices.(7) f(1) The chorus continues to tell what it has seen on its flights. f(2) The harbour of the island of Chios; but this name is here used in the sense of being the land of informers ((from the Greek for) 'to denounce'). f(3) i.e. near the orators' platform, in the Public Assembly, or because there stood the water-clock, by which speeches were limited. f(4) A coined name, made up of (the Greek for) the tongue, and (for) the stomach, and meaning those who fill their stomach with what they gain with their tongues, to wit, the orators. f(5) (The Greek for) a fig forms part of the word which in Greek means an informer. f(6) Both rhetoricians. f(7) Because they consecrated it specially to the god of eloquence. A MESSENGER Oh, you, whose unbounded happiness I cannot express in words, thrice happy race of airy birds, receive your king in your fortunate dwellings. More brilliant than the brightest star that illumes the earth, he is approaching his glittering golden palace; the sun itself does not shine with more dazzling glory. He is entering with his bride at his side,(1) whose beauty no human tongue can express; in his hand he brandishes the lightning, the winged shaft of Zeus; perfumes of unspeakable sweetness pervade the ethereal realms. 'Tis a glorious spectacle to see the clouds of incense wafting in light whirlwinds before the breath of the Zephyr! But here he is himself. Divine Muse! let thy sacred lips begin with songs of happy omen. f(1) Basileia, whom he brings back from heaven. CHORUS Fall back! to the right! to the left! advance!(1) Fly around this happy mortal, whom Fortune loads with her blessings. Oh! oh! what grace! what beauty! Oh, marriage so auspicious for our city! All honour to this man! 'tis through him that the birds are called to such glorious destinies. Let your nuptial hymns, your nuptial songs, greet him and his Basileia! 'Twas in the midst of such festivities that the Fates formerly united Olympian Here to the King who governs the gods from the summit of his inaccessible throne. Oh! Hymen! oh! Hymenaeus! Rosy Eros with the golden wings held the reins and guided the chariot; 'twas he, who presided over the union of Zeus and the fortunate Here. Oh! Hymen! oh! Hymenaeus! f(1) Terms used in regulating a dance. PISTHETAERUS I am delighted with your songs, I applaud your verses. Now celebrate the thunder that shakes the earth, the flaming lightning of Zeus and the terrible flashing thunderbolt. CHORUS Oh, thou golden flash of the lightning! oh, ye divine shafts of flame, that Zeus has hitherto shot forth! Oh, ye rolling thunders, that bring down the rain! 'Tis by the order of OUR king that ye shall now stagger the earth! Oh, Hymen! 'tis through thee that he commands the universe and that he makes Basileia, whom he has robbed from Zeus, take her seat at his side. Oh! Hymen! oh! Hymenaeus! PISTHETAERUS Let all the winged tribes of our fellow-citizens follow the bridal couple to the palace of Zeus(1) and to the nuptial couch! Stretch forth your hands, my dear wife! Take hold of me by my wings and let us dance; I am going to lift you up and carry you through the air. f(1) Where Pisthetaerus is henceforth to reign. CHORUS Oh, joy! Io Paean! Tralala! victory is thing, oh, thou greatest of the gods! 
28270	----	_Verse by the Same Author_ ON VIOL AND FLUTE KING ERIK FERDAUSI IN EXILE IN RUSSET AND SILVER HYPOLYMPIA Or The Gods in the Island _An Ironic Fantasy_ by EDMUND GOSSE London William Heinemann 1901 PREFACE _The scene of this fantasy is an island, hitherto inhabited by Lutherans, in a remote but temperate province of Northern Europe. The persons are the Gods of Ancient Greece. The time is early in the Twentieth Century._ I [_A terrace high above the sea, which is seen far below, through vast masses of woodland. Steps lead down towards the water, from the centre of the scene. To the left, a large, low country-house, of unpretentious character, in the style of the late eighteenth century. Gardens belonging to the same period, and now somewhat neglected and overgrown, stretch on either side. The edge of the terrace is marked by a stone balustrade, with a stone seat running round it within. At the top of steps, ascending, appear_ APHRODITE _and_ EROS.] APHRODITE. A moment, Eros. Let us sit here. What can this flutter at my girdle be? I breathe with difficulty. Oh! Eros, can this be death? EROS. Death? Ah! no; you have roses in your cheeks, mother. Your lips are like blood. APHRODITE. It must be weariness. Ever these new sensations, these odd, exciting apprehensions! This must be mortality. I never breathed the faster as I rose from terrace to terrace in Cythera. EROS. Yet this is like Cythera--a little like it. [_Looking round._] It is not the least like it. These round billowy woods, that grey strip of sea far below, the long smooth land with square yellow fields and pointed brown fields, and the wild grey sky above. No; it would be impossible for anything to be less like Cythera. APHRODITE. Yet it is like it. [_Gazing round._] How strange ... to be where everything is not azure and gold and white--white land, gold houses and blue sky and sea. What are these woods, Eros? EROS. Are they beech-woods? APHRODITE. I did not think that I could ever be happy again. I am not _happy_. But I am not miserable. Now that my heart is quiet again, I am not miserable. Oh! that sick tossing on the black sea, the nausea, the aching, the dulness; that I, who sprang from the waves, could come to hate them so. We will never venture on the sea, again? EROS. Then must we stay for ever here, since this is an island. APHRODITE. Yes, here for ever. For ever? We have no "for ever" now, Eros. [_Enter, from the house_, CYDIPPE.] APHRODITE. Is all prepared for us, Cydippe? CYDIPPE. I have done my best. The barbarian people are kind and clean. They have blue eyes. There is one, with marigold curls and a crisp beard, who has brought up water and logs of wood. There are two maidens, with hair like a wheat-field and rough red fingers. There are others.... I know not. All seem civil and frightened. But your Majesty will be wretched. APHRODITE. No, Cydippe, I think I shall be happy. EROS [_walking to the parapet, and looking down_]. Our white ship still lies there, mother. Shall we start again? APHRODITE. On that leaden water, with the little cruel breakers like coriander seeds? Never. And whither should we go, Eros? We have lost our golden home, our only home. We have lost the old white world of empire; any grey corner of the world of stillness is good enough for us. I will eat, and lie down, and rest without that long, awful heave of the intolerable ocean. Which way, Cydippe? [APHRODITE _and_ CYDIPPE _enter the house_.] EROS [_alone_]. This little milk-white flower, with the drop of wine in it.... It is like the grass that grows on the slopes of Parnassus. It is the only home-like thing here. Can that be grey wool that hangs in the sky, and droops like a curtain over the opposite hills? How cold the air is! Ah! it is raining over in the other island, and the brown fields grow like the yellow fields, melt into a mere white mist behind the slate-coloured sea. Here is one of the barbarians. [POSEIDON _slowly appears at the top of the steps_.] POSEIDON. Ah, you here alone, Eros? EROS [_aside_]. It is Poseidon! How old and bluff he looks! [_To_ POSEIDON.] My mother is within. [_Smiling._] She was angry with you, Poseidon, but her anger is fallen. POSEIDON. Adversity brings us all together. It was once I who burned with anger against her. Why was she angry? EROS. The cruelty of your sea; it shook and sickened her. POSEIDON. It once was her sea, too. Now it is not even mine.... Rebellion everywhere, everywhere the servant risen against the master, everywhere our spells and portents broken. I rule the sea still, but it is as a man holds in a wild horse with a hard rein: it obeys with hatred, it would obey not one moment after the master's hand was withdrawn. EROS. How cold it is. But I am not disconsolate. Nor should you be, Poseidon, for you will have the sea to occupy your thoughts. Hephæstus will help you to break it in. He at least should be consoled, for in our fallen estate his magical ingenuity will employ his brain. POSEIDON. We have never needed to be ingenious. It has been enough for us to command, to wield the elements like weapons, to say it shall be and to see it is. EROS. To see it is not, and yet to make it be, perhaps this may be a joy in store for us. For Hephæstus, certainly; for you, if you are wise; but for me, ah! what will there be? My arrows break against old hearts, and now we all are old. [PALLAS ATHENE _comes rapidly down the steps from the house and speaks while still behind_ EROS.] PALLAS. I have brought with me the box which Epimetheus made for Pandora. EROS [_turning suddenly_]. Ah! Pallas! What, you have brought that ivory box with you? Why did you burden your hands with that? PALLAS. I snatched it from the burning palace. There is something strange at the bottom of it--something like an opal, with a violet flame in it. EROS. Alas! we have no great need of jewels here. This shining beech-leaf is the treasure you should wear, Pallas. See, a little bough of it, bent just above the white enamel of your forehead. It will be as green as a beryl to-day, and red like copper to-morrow, and perhaps you will need no third adornment. PALLAS. There is something in the carven box which the shrieking oracle commended to me. "Take this," it said, "take this, and it will turn the blackness of exile into living light." EROS. Poor oracle, it became mad before it became dumb. PALLAS. I was the only one of us all, Eros, who anticipated this change. High up above the glaciers of Olympus, where the warm crystal shone like ice, and the faint cumuli rained jasmine on us, and the blue light was like the cold acid of a fruit, in the midst of our incomparable felicity I pondered on the vicissitude of things. EROS. You only, I remember, ever heeded the foolish screaming oracle that moaned for mortals. You always had something of the mortal temperament, Pallas. It jarred upon my mother that you seem to shudder even at the voluptuous turmoil of the senses. She said you always looked old. You look younger now than she does, Pallas. PALLAS. I am neither old nor young. I know not what I am. But this grey colour and those blowing woods are not unpleasing to me. I can be _myself_, even here, on a beech-wood peak in the cold sea. [_Enter up the steps_ ZEUS, _leaning heavily on_ GANYMEDE, _and attended by many other Gods_.] EROS, POSEIDON, _and_ PALLAS. Hail! father and king! ZEUS. I can push on no farther. Why have I brought you here? [_Gazing round._] Nay, it is you who have brought me here. [_He moves up the scene._] I have a demon in my legs, that swells them, breaks them, crushes me down. [_To_ GANYMEDE.] You are careless; stiffen your shoulder, it slopes like a woman's. I have lost my thunderbolt, I have lost everything. Shall I be _bound_ upon this muddy, slippery rock? What is that horror in the sky? POSEIDON. It is some dark bird of the north; it seeks a prey in the woodlands. ZEUS. I think it is a vulture. My eagle fled from me when the rebel whistled to it. It perched beside him, and smoothed its crest against his elbow. All have left me, even my eagle. PALLAS. Father, we have not left you. We are about you here. One by one the alleys of the beech-wood will open, and one after one we shall all gather here, all your children, all the Olympians. ZEUS. But where is Olympus? I hardly know you. [_Gazing blankly about him._] Are you my children? You [_to_ PALLAS] gaze at me with eyes like those I hated most. EROS. Whose eyes, father and king? ZEUS. I will not say. Are you sure [_to_ POSEIDON] that is not a vulture? I am torn, see, here under my beard, by a thorn. I can feel pain at last, _I_, who could only inflict it. EROS. Pallas has something in a box---- ZEUS [_vehemently_]. There is nothing in any box, there is nothing in any island, there is nothing in all the empty caskets of this world which can give me any happiness. Is it in this shanty that we must live? Lead me on, Ganymede, lead me on into it, that I may sink down and sleep. Walk slowly and walk steadily, wretched boy. [_He passes into the house, followed by all the others._] II [_The terrace as before. Early morning, with warm sunshine. Enter_ CIRCE, _very carefully helping_ KRONOS _down the steps of the house_. RHEA _follows, leaning on a staff_. CIRCE _places_ KRONOS _in one throne, and sees_ RHEA _comfortably settled in another. Then she sits on the ground between them, at_ RHEA'S _knees_.] CIRCE. There! We are all comfortable now. How did Kronos sleep, Rhea? RHEA. He has not complained this morning. [_Raising her voice._] Did you sleep, Kronos? KRONOS [_vaguely_]. Yes, oh yes! I always sleep. Why should I not sleep? CIRCE. These new arrangements--I was afraid they might disturb you. RHEA [_to_ CIRCE]. He notices very little. I do not think he recollects that there has been any change. Already he forgets Olympus. [_After a pause._] It is very thoughtful of you, Circe, to take so much trouble about us. CIRCE. I have been anxious about you both. All the rest of us ought to be able to console ourselves, but I am afraid that you will find it very difficult to live in the new way. RHEA. Kronos will soon have forgotten that there was an old way; and as for me, Circe, I have seen so much and wandered in so many places, that one is as another to me. KRONOS. Is it Zeus who has driven us forth? CIRCE. Oh no! Zeus has led us hither. It was he who was attacked, it was against him that the rage of the enemy was directed. KRONOS [_to himself_]. He let me stay where I was. We were not driven forth before, Rhea, were we? When I saw that it was hopeless, I did not struggle; I rose and took you by the hand.... RHEA. Yes; and we went half-way down the steps of the throne together.... KRONOS [_very excitedly_]. And we bowed to Zeus.... RHEA. And he walked forward as if he did not see us.... KRONOS. And then we came down, and I [_all his excitement falls from him_] I cannot quite remember. Did he strike us, Rhea? RHEA. Oh! no, no! He swept straight on, and did not so much as seem to see us, and in a moment he was up in the throne, and all the gods, the new and the old, were bowing to him with acclamation. CIRCE [_looking up at_ RHEA, _with eager sympathy_]. What did _you_ do, you poor dears? RHEA [_after a pause_]. We did nothing. KRONOS. Zeus let us stay then. Why has he driven us out now? RHEA [_aside_]. He does not understand, Circe. It is very sweet of you to be so kind to us, but you must go back now to your young companions. Who is here? CIRCE. I think we are all here, or nearly all. I have not seen Iris, but surely all the rest are here. RHEA. Is Zeus very much disturbed? On the ship I heard Æolus say that it was impossible to go near him, he was so unreasonably angry. CIRCE. Yes, he thought that our miseries were all the fault of Poseidon and Æolus. But mortality will make a great change in Zeus; I think perhaps a greater change than in any of us. He has eaten a very substantial breakfast. Æsculapius says that as Zeus has hitherto considered the quality of his food so much, it is probable that in these lower conditions it may prove to be quantity which will interest him most. He was greatly pleased with a curious kind of aromatic tube which Hermes invented for him this morning. RHEA. Does Zeus blow down it? CIRCE. No; he puts fire to one end of it, and draws in the vapour. He is delighted. How clever Hermes is, is he not, Rhea? What shall you do here? RHEA. I must look after Kronos, of course. But he gives me no trouble. And I do not need to do much more. I am very tired, Circe. I was tired in my immortality. When Kronos and I were young, things were so very different in Olympus. CIRCE. How were they different? Do tell me what happened. I have always longed to know, but it was not considered quite nice, quite respectful to Zeus, for us to ask questions about the Golden Age. But now it cannot matter; can it, Rhea? RHEA [_after a pause_]. The fact is that when I look back, I cannot see very plainly any longer. Do you know, Circe, that after the younger Gods invaded Heaven, although Zeus was very good-natured to us, and let us go on as deities, something of our god-head passed away? KRONOS [_aloud, to himself_]. I said to him, "If I am unwelcome, I can go." And he answered, "Pray don't discommode yourself." Just like that; very politely, "Don't discommode yourself." And now he drives us away after all. CIRCE [_flinging herself over to_ KRONOS' _knees_]. Oh! Kronos, he does not drive you away! It is not he. It is our new enemies, not of our own race, that have driven us. And we are all here--Pallas, Ares, Phoebus--we are all here. You like Hermes, do you not, Kronos? Well, Hermes is here, and he will amuse you. KRONOS. I thought that Zeus had forgiven us. But never mind, never mind! RHEA. We are tired, Circe. And what does the new life matter to us now? The old life had run low, and we had long been prepared for mortality by the poverty of our immortality. [_Enter_ HERMES _running_.] HERMES [_in reply to a gesture of_ CIRCE]. I cannot stay. I am trying to rouse Demeter from her dreadful state of depression. She sits in the palace heaving deep sighs, and doing absolutely nothing else. It will affect her heart, Æsculapius say. CIRCE. She has always been so closely wedded to the study of agriculture, and now.... HERMES. Precisely. And it has occurred to me that the way to rouse her will be to send Persephone to her in a little country cart I have discovered. I have two mouse-coloured ponies already caught and harnessed--such little beauties. The only thing left to do is to search for Persephone. CIRCE. I will find her in a moment. [_Exit._] RHEA. We hear that you have already invented a means of amusing Zeus, Hermes? Is he prepared to forget his thunderbolt? HERMES. He has mentioned it only twice this morning, and I have set Hephæstus to work to make him another, of yew-tree wood. It will be less incommodious, more fitted to this place, and in a very short time Zeus will forget the original. KRONOS [_loudly, to himself_]. Zeus gave me an orb and sceptre to console me. I used to play cup and ball with them behind his throne. RHEA [_in a solicitous aside to_ HERMES]. Oh! it is not true. Kronos' mind now wanders so strangely. He thinks that it is Zeus who has turned him out of Olympus. HERMES [_in the same tone_]. Do not distress him, Rhea, by contradiction and explanation. I will find modes of amusing him a little every day, and, for the rest, let him doze in the sunshine. His mind is worn so smooth that it fails any longer to catch in ideas as they flit against it. They pass off, glide away. It is useless, Rhea, to torment Kronos. RHEA. I shall watch him, all day long. For I, too, am weary. Do not propose to me, with your restless energy, any fresh interests. Let me sit, with my cold hands folded in my lap, and look at Kronos, nodding, nodding. It is very kind of Circe, but we are too old for love; and of you, but we are too old for amusement. Let us rest, Hermes, rest and sleep; perhaps dream a little, dream of the far-away past. [CIRCE _and_ PERSEPHONE _enter from the left_.] PERSEPHONE [_to_ HERMES]. My mother requires so much activity of mind and body. You must not believe that I was neglecting her. But I went forth in despair this morning to see what I could invent, adapt, discover, as a means of rousing her. I am stupid, I could think of nothing. I wandered through the woods, down the glen, along the sea-shore, up the side of the tarn and of the marsh, but I could think of nothing. CIRCE. And when I found Persephone she was lying, flung out among the flowers, with bees and butterflies leaping round her in the sunshine, and the beech-leaves singing their faint song of peace. It was beautiful, it was like Enna--with, ah! such a difference. PERSEPHONE. Circe does not tell you that I was so foolish as to be in tears. But now it seems that you have invented an occupation for Ceres? You are so divinely ingenious. HERMES. I hope it may be successful. PERSEPHONE. Tell me what it is. HERMES. I have found at the back of the palace a small rural waggon, and I have caught two ponies, with coats like grey velvet, and great antelopes' eyes--dear little creatures. I have harnessed them, and now I want you to sit in this cart, while I am dressed like some herdsman of these barbarians, and lead the ponies, and we will go together to coax Demeter out into the fields. PERSEPHONE. Oh! Hermes, how splendid of you. Let us fly to carry out your plan. Circe, will you not come with us? CIRCE. Or shall I not rather go to prepare the mind of Demeter for an agreeable surprise? Shall you be happy by yourselves, Kronos and Rhea? RHEA. Quite happy, for we desire to sleep. [_Exit_ CIRCE _to right_, HERMES _and_ PERSEPHONE _to left_.] III [_A ring of turf, in a hollow of the slope, surrounded by beech-trees, except on one side, where a marsh descends to a small tarn. Over the latter is rising the harvest moon._ PHOEBUS APOLLO _alone; he watches the luminary for a long time in silence_.] PHOEBUS. Selene! sister!--since that tawny shell, Stained by thy tears and hollowed by thy sighs, Recalls thee still to mind--dost thou regard, From some tumultuous covert of this woodland, Thy whilom sphere and palace? Nun of the skies, In coy virginity of pulse, thy hands Repelled me when I sought to win thy lair, Fraternal, with no thoughts but humorous ones; And in thy chill revulsion, through thy skies, At my advance thy crystal home would fade, A ghost, a shadow, a film, a papery dream. Thou and thy moon were one. What is it now, Thy phantom paradise of gorgeous pearl, With sibilant streams and palmy tier on tier Of wind-bewhitened foliage? Still it floats, As when thy congregated harps and viols Beat slow harmonious progress, light on light, Across our stainless canopy of heaven. Ah! but how changed, Selene! If thy form Crouches among these harsher herbs, O turn Thy withering face away, and press thine eyes To darkness in the strings of dusty heather, Since that loose globe of orange pallor totters, Racked with the fires of anarchy, and sheds The embers of thy glory; and the cradles Of thy imperial maidenhood are foul With sulphur and the craterous ash of hell. O gaze not, sister, on the loathsome wreck Of what was once thy moon. Yet, if thou must With tear-fed eyes visit thine ancient realm, Bend down until the fringe of thy faint lids Hides all save what is in this tarn reflected-- Cold, pallid, swimming in the lustrous pool, There only worthy of thy clear regard, A vision purified in woe. [_The reeds in the tarn are stirred, and there is audible a faint shriek and a ripple of laughter. A shrouded figure rises from the marsh, and, hastening by_ PHOEBUS _through the darkness, is lost in the woods. It is followed closely by_ PAN, _who, observing_ PHOEBUS, _pauses in embarrassment_.] PHOEBUS. I thought I was alone. PAN. And so did we, sire. PHOEBUS. Am I to congratulate you on your distractions? PAN. I have a natural inclination to marshy places. PHOEBUS. This is a ghastly night, Pan. PAN. I had not observed it, sire. Yes, doubtless a ghastly night. But I was occupied, and I am no naturalist. This glen curiously reminded me of rushy Ladon. I am a great student of reeds, and I was agreeably surprised to find some very striking specimens here--worthy of the Arcadian watercourses, as I am a deity. I should say, _was_ a deity. PHOEBUS. They will help, perhaps, to reconcile you to mortality. You can add them to your collection. PAN. That, sire, is my hope. The stems are particularly full and smooth, and the heads of the best of them rustle back with a profusion of flaxen flowerage, remarkably agreeable to the touch. I broke one as your Highness approached. But the wind, or some goblin, bore it from me. This curious place seems full of earth-spirits. PHOEBUS. You must study them, too, Pan. That will supply you with another object. PAN. But the marsh water has a property unknown to the Olympian springs. I suspect it of being poisoned. After standing long in it, I found myself troubled with aching in the shank, from knee to hoof. If this is repeated, my studies of reed-life will be made dolorously difficult. PHOEBUS. It must now be part of your pleasure to husband your enjoyments. You have always rolled in the twinkle of the vine-leaves, hot enough and not too hot, with grapes--immense musky clusters--just within your reach. If you think of it philosophically---- PAN. How, sire? PHOEBUS. Philosophically.... Well, if you think of it sensibly, you will see that there was a certain dreariness in this uniformity of satisfaction. Rather amusing, surely, to find the cluster occasionally spring up out of reach, to find the polished waist of the reed slip from your hands? Occasionally, of course; just enough to give a zest to pursuit. PAN. Ah! there was pursuit in Ladon, but it was pursuit which always closed easily in capture. What I am afraid of is that here capture may prove the exception. Your Highness ... but a slight family connection and our adversities are making me strangely familiar.... PHOEBUS. Speak on, my good Pan. PAN. Your Highness was once something of a botanist? PHOEBUS. A botanist? Ah, scarcely! A little arboriculture, the laurel; a little horticulture, the sun-flower. Those varieties seem entirely absent here, and I have no thought of replacing them. PAN. The last thing I should dream of suggesting would be a _hortus siccus_.... PHOEBUS. And I was never a consistent collector. There are reeds everywhere, you fortunate goat-foot, but even in Olympus I was the creature of a fastidious selection. PAN. The current of the thick and punctual blood never left me liable to the distractions of choice. PHOEBUS. I congratulate you, Pan, upon your temperament, and I recommend to you a further pursuit of the attainable. [PAN _makes a profound obeisance and disappears in the woodland_. PHOEBUS _watches him depart, and then turns to the moon_.] PHOEBUS [_alone_]. His familiarity was not distasteful to me. It reminded me of days out hunting, when I have come suddenly upon him at the edge of the watercourse, and have shared his melons and his conversation. I anticipate for him some not unagreeable experiences. The lower order of divinities will probably adapt themselves with ease to our new conditions. They despaired the most suddenly, with wringing of hands as we raced to the sea, with interminable babblings and low moans and screams, as they clustered on the deck of that extraordinary vessel. But the science of our new life must be to forget or to remember. We must live in the past or forego the past. For Pan and his likes I conceive that it will largely resolve itself into a question of temperature--of temperature and of appetite. That orb is of a sinister appearance, but to do it justice it looks heated. My sister had a passion for coldness; she would never permit me to lend her any of my warmth. I cannot say that it is chilly here to-night. I am agreeably surprised. [_The veiled figure flits across again, and_ PAN _once more crosses in close pursuit_.] PHOEBUS [_as they vanish_]. What an amiable vivacity! Yes; the lower order of divinities will be happy, for they will forget. We, on the contrary, have the privilege of remembering. It is only the mediocre spirits, that cannot quite forget nor clearly remember, which will have neither the support of instinct nor the solace of a vivid recollection. [_He seats himself. A noise of laughter rises from the marsh, and dies away. In the silence a bird sings._] PHOEBUS. Not the Daulian nightingale, of course, but quite a personable substitute: less prolongation of the triumph, less insistence upon the agony. How curiously the note breaks off! Some pleasant little northern bird, no doubt. I experience a strange and quite unprecedented appetite for moderation. The absence of the thrill, the shaft, the torrent is not disagreeable. The actual Phocian frenzy would be disturbing here, out of place, out of time. I must congratulate this little, doubtless brown, bird on a very considerable skill in warbling. But the moon--what is happening to _it_? It is not merely climbing higher, but it is manifestly clarifying its light. When I came, it was copper-coloured, now it is honey-coloured, the horn of it is almost white like milk. This little bird's incantation has, without question, produced this fortunate effect. This little bird, halfway on the road between the nightingale and the cicada, is doubtless an enchanter, and one whose art possesses a more than respectable property. My sister's attention should be drawn to this highly interesting circumstance. Selene! Selene! [_He calls and waits. From the upper woods_ SELENE _slowly descends, wrapped in long white garments_.] PHOEBUS. Sister, behold the throne that once was thine. SELENE. And now, a rocking cinder, fouls the skies. PHOEBUS. A magian sweeps its filthy ash away. SELENE. There is no magic in the bankrupt world. PHOEBUS. Nay, did'st thou hear this twittering peal of song? SELENE. Some noise I heard; this glen is full of sounds. PHOEBUS. Fling back thy veil, and staunch thy tears, and gaze. SELENE. At thee, my brother, not at my darkened orb. PHOEBUS. Gaze then at me. What seest thou in mine eyes? SELENE. Foul ruddy gleams from what was lately pure. PHOEBUS. Nay, but thou gazest not. Look up, look at me! SELENE. But on thy sacred eyeballs fume turns fire. PHOEBUS. Nay, then, turn once and see thy very moon. SELENE [_turning round_]. Ah! wonder! the volcanic glare is gone. PHOEBUS. The wizard bird has sung the fumes away. SELENE. Empty it seems, and vain; but foul no more. PHOEBUS [_approaching her, and in a confidential tone_]. I will not disguise from you, Selene, my apprehension that the hideous colour may return. Your moon is divorced from yourself, and can but be desecrated and forlorn. But at least it should be a matter of interest to you--yes, even of gratification, my sister--that this little bird, if it be a bird, has an enchanting power of temporarily relieving it and raising it. [SELENE, _manifestly more cheerful, ascends to the wood on the left_. PHOEBUS, _turning again to the moon_,] I have observed that this species of mysterious agency has a very salutary effect upon the more melancholy of our female divinities. They are satisfied if they have the felicity of waiting for something which they cannot be certain of realising, and which they attribute to a cause impossible to investigate. [_To_ SELENE, _raising his voice_.] Whither do you go, my sister? SELENE. I am searching for this little bird. I propose to discuss with it the nature of its extraordinary, and I am ready to admit its gratifying, control over the moon. I think it possible that I may concoct with it some scheme for our return. You shall, in that case, Phoebus, be no longer excluded from my domain. PHOEBUS. Let me urge you to do no such thing. The action of this little bird upon your unfortunate luminary is sympathetic, but surely very obscure. It would be a pity to inquire into it so closely as to comprehend it. [SELENE, _without listening to him, passes up into the woods, and exit_.] PHOEBUS [_alone_]. To comprehend it might even be to discover that it does not exist. Whereas to come here night after night, in the fragrant darkness, to see the unhallowed lump of fire creep out of the lake, to listen for the first clucks and shakes of the sweet little purifying song, and to watch the orb growing steadily more hyaline and lucent under its sway, how delicious! The absolute harmony and concord of nature would be then patent and recurrent before us. My poor sister! However, it is consoling to reflect that she is almost certain not to be able to find that bird. IV [_The same glen._ ÆSCULAPIUS _alone, busily arranging a great cluster of herbs which he has collected. He sits on a large stone, with his treasures around him_.] ÆSCULAPIUS. Yew--an excellent styptic. Tansy, rosemary. Spurge and marsh mallow. The best pellitory I ever plucked out of a wall. The herbs of this glen are admirable. They surpass those of the gorges of Cyllene. Is this lavender? The scent seems more acrid. [_Enter_ PALLAS _and_ EUTERPE.] PALLAS. You look enviably animated, Æsculapius. Your countenance is so fresh beneath that long white beard of yours, that the barbarians will suppose you to be some mad boy, masquerading. EUTERPE. What will you do with these plants? ÆSCULAPIUS. These are my simples. As we shot through the Iberian narrows on our frantic voyage hither, my entire store was blown out of my hands and away to sea. The rarest sorts were flung about on rocks where nothing more valetudinarian than a baboon could possibly taste them. My earliest care on arriving here was to search these woods for fresh specimens, and my success has been beyond all hope. See, this comes from the wet lands on the hither side of the tarn---- EUTERPE. Where Selene is now searching for the wizard who draws the smoke away from the moon's face at night. ÆSCULAPIUS. This from the beck where it rushes down between the stems of mountain-ash, this from beneath the vast ancestral elm below the palace, this from the sea-shore. Marvellous! And I am eager to descend again; I have not explored the cliff which breaks the descent of the torrent, nor the thicket in the gully. There must be marchantia under the spray of the one, and possibly dittany in the peat of the other. PALLAS. We must not detain you, Æsculapius. But tell us how you propose to adapt yourself to our new life. It seems to me that you are determined not to find it irksome. ÆSCULAPIUS. Does it not occur to you, Pallas, that--although I should never have had the courage to adopt it--thus forced upon us it offers me the most dazzling anticipations? Hitherto my existence has been all theory. What there is to know about the principles of health as applied to the fluctuations of mortality, I may suppose is known to me. You might be troubled, Pallas, with every conceivable malady, from elephantiasis to earache, and I should be in a position to analyse and to deal with each in turn. You might be obscured by ophthalmia, crippled by gout or consumed to a spectre by phthisis, and I should be able, without haste, without anxiety, to unravel the coil, to reduce the nodosities, to make the fleshy instrument respond in melody to all your needs. PALLAS. But you have never done this. We knew that you _could_ do it, and that has been enough for us. ÆSCULAPIUS. It has never been enough for me. The impenetrable immortality of all our bodies has been a constant source of exasperation to me. PALLAS. Is it not much to know? ÆSCULAPIUS. Yes; but it is more to _do_. The most perfect theory carries a monotony and an emptiness about with it, if it is never renovated by practice. In Olympus the unbroken health of all the inmates, which we have accepted as a matter of course, has been more advantageous to them than it has been to me. PALLAS. I quite see that it has made your position a more academic one than you could wish. ÆSCULAPIUS. It has made it purely academic, and indeed, Pallas, if you will reflect upon it, the very existence of a physician in a social system which is eternally protected against every species of bodily disturbance borders upon the ridiculous. PALLAS. It would interest me to know whether in our old home you were conscious of this incongruity, of this lack of harmony between your science and your occasions of using it. ÆSCULAPIUS. No; I think not. I was satisfied in the possession of exact knowledge, and not directly aware of the charm of application. It is the result, no doubt, of this resignation of immortality which has startled and alarmed us all so much---- PALLAS. Me, Æsculapius, it has neither alarmed nor startled. ÆSCULAPIUS. I mean that while we were beyond the dread of any attack, the pleasure of rebutting such attack was unknown to us. I have divined, since our misfortunes, that disease itself may bring an excitement with it not all unallied to pleasure.... You smile, Euterpe, but I mean even for the sufferer. There is more in disease than the mere pang and languishment. There is the sense of alleviation, the cessation of the throb, the resuming glitter in the eye, the restoration of cheerfulness and appetite. These, Pallas, are qualities which are indissolubly identified with pain and decay, and which therefore--if we rightly consider--were wholly excluded from our experience. In Olympus we never brightened, for we never flagged; we never waited for a pang to subside, nor felt it throbbing less and less poignantly, nor, as if we were watching an enemy from a distance, hugged ourselves in a breathless ecstasy as it faded altogether; this exquisite experience was unknown to us, for we never endured the pang. EUTERPE. You make me eager for an illness. What shall it be? Prescribe one for me. I am ignorant even of the names of the principal maladies. Let it be a not unbecoming one. ÆSCULAPIUS. Ah! no, Euterpe. Your mind still runs in the channel of your lost impermeability. Till now, you might fling yourself from the crags of Tartarus, or float, like a trail of water-plants, on the long, blown flood of the altar-flame, and yet take no hurt, being imperishable. But now, part of your hourly occupation, part of your faith, your hope, your duty, must be to preserve your body against the inroads of decay. EUTERPE. You present us with a tedious conception of our new existence, surely. ÆSCULAPIUS. Why should it be tedious? There was tedium, rather, in the possession of bodies as durable as metal, as renewable as wax, as insensitive as water. In the fiercest onset of the passions, prolonged to satiety, there was always an element of the unreal. What is pleasure, if the strain of it is followed by no fatigue; what the delicacy of taste, if we can eat like caverns and drink like conduits without being vexed by the slightest inconvenience? You will discover that one of the acutest enjoyments of the mortal state will be found to consist in guarding against suffering. If you are provided with balloons attached to all your members, you float upon the sea with indifference. It is the certainty that you will drown if you do not swim which gives zest to the exercise. I climb along yonder jutting cornice of the cliff with eagerness, and pluck my simples with a hand that trembles more from joy than fear, precisely because the strain of balancing the nerves, and the certainty of suffering as the result of carelessness, knit my sensations together into an exaltation which is not exactly pleasure, perhaps, but which is not to be distinguished from it in its exciting properties. PALLAS. Is life, then, to resolve itself for us into a chain of exhilarating pangs? ÆSCULAPIUS. Life will now be for you, for all of us, a perpetual combat with a brine that half supports, half drags us under; a continual creeping and balancing on a chamois path around the forehead of a precipice. A headache will be the breaking of a twig, a fever a stone that gives way beneath your foot, to lose the use of an organ will be to let the alpenstock slip out of your starting fingers. And the excitement, and be sure the happiness, of existence will be to protract the struggle as long as possible, to push as far as you can along the dwindling path, to keep the supports and the alleviations of your labour about you as skilfully as you can, and in the fuss and business of the little momentary episodes of climbing to forget as long and as fully as may be the final and absolutely unavoidable plunge. [_A pause, during which_ EUTERPE _sinks upon the green sward_.] ÆSCULAPIUS. I have unfolded before you a scheme of philosophical activity. Are you not gratified? PALLAS. Euterpe will learn to be gratified, Æsculapius, but she had not reflected upon the plunge. If she will take my counsel, she will continue to avoid doing so. [EUTERPE _rises, and approaches_ PALLAS, _who continues, to_ ÆSCULAPIUS.] I am with you in recommending to her a constant consideration of the momentary episodes of health. And now let us detain you no longer from the marchanteas. EUTERPE. But pray recollect that they grow where the rocks are both slippery and shelving. [_Exit_ ÆSCULAPIUS. EUTERPE _sinks again upon the grass, with her face in her hands, and lies there motionless_. PALLAS _walks up and down, in growing emotion, and at length breaks forth in soliloquy_.] PALLAS. Higher than this dull circle of the sense-- Shrewd though its pulsing sharp reminders be, With ceaseless fairy blows that ring and wake The anvil of the brain--I rather choose To lift mine eyes and pierce The long transparent bar that floats above, And hides, or feigns to hide, the choiring stars, And dulls, or faintly dulls, the fiery sun, And lacquers all the glassy sky with gold. For so the strain that makes this mortal life Irksome or squalid, chains that bind us down, Rust on those chains which soils the reddening skin, Passes; and in that concentrated calm, And in that pure concinnity of soul, And in that heart that almost fails to beat, I read a faint beatitude, and dream I walk once more upon the roof of Heaven, And feel all knowledge, all capacity For sovereign thought, all intellectual joy, Blow on me, like fluttering and like dancing winds. We are fallen, fallen!... And yet a nameless mirth, flooding my veins, And yet a sense of limpid happiness And buoyancy and anxious fond desire Quicken my being. It is much to see The perfected geography of thought Spread out before the gorged intelligence, A map from further detail long absolved. But ah! when we have tasted the delight Of toilsome apprehension, how return To that satiety of mental ease Where all is known because it merely is? Nay, here the joy will be to learn and learn, To learn in error and correct in pain, To learn through effort and with ease forget, Building of rough and slippery stones a House, Long schemed, and falling from us, and at the last Imperfect. Knowledge not the aim, so much As pleasure in the toil that leads to knowledge, We shall build, although the house before our eyes Crumble, and we shall gladden in the toil Although it never leads to habitation-- Building our goal, though never a fabric rise. V [_The glen, down which a limpid and murmuring brook descends, with numerous tiny cascades and pools. Beside one of the latter, underneath a great beech-tree, and sitting on the root of it_, APHRODITE, _alone. Enter from below, concealed at first by the undergrowth_, ARES. _It is mid-day._] APHRODITE [_to herself_]. Here he comes at last, and from the opposite direction.... No! that cannot be Phoebus.... Ah! it is you, then! ARES. Is it possible? Your Majesty--and alone! APHRODITE. Phoebus offered me the rustic entertainment of gathering wild raspberries. We found some at length, and regaled ourselves. I wished for more, and Phoebus, with his usual gallantry, wandered dreamily away into the forest on the quest. He has evidently lost his way. I sat me down on this tree and waited. ARES. Surely it is the first time that you were ever abroad unattended. I am amazed at the carelessness of Phoebus. Aphrodite--without an attendant! APHRODITE. That is rather a fatuous remark, and from you of all people in the world. My most agreeable reminiscences are, without exception, connected with occasions on which I had escaped from my body-guard of nymphs. At the present moment you would do well to face the fact, Ares, that I have but a single maid, and that she has collapsed under the burdens of novelty and exile. ARES. Is that my poor friend Cydippe? APHRODITE. You have so many friends, Ares. Poor Cydippe, then, broke down this morning in moaning hysterics after having borne up just long enough to do my hair. I really came out on this rather mad adventure after the raspberries to escape the dolours of her countenance, and the last thing I saw was her chlamys flung wildly over her head as she dived down upon the floor in misery. Such consolations as this island has to give me will not proceed from what you call my attendant. You do not look well, Ares. ARES. I am always well. I am still incensed. APHRODITE. Ah, you are oppressed by our misfortunes? ARES. I can think of nothing else. APHRODITE. You do not, I hope, give way to the most foolish of the emotions, and endure the silly torture of self-reproach? ARES. I have nothing to reproach myself with. Our forces had never been in smarter trim, public spirit in Olympus never more patriotic and national; and as to the personal bravery of our forces, it was simply a portent of moral splendour. APHRODITE. And your discipline? ARES. It was perfect. I had led the troops up to the point of cheerfully marching and counter-marching until they were ready to drop with exhaustion, on the eve of each engagement; and at the ends of all our practising-grounds brick walls had been set up, at which every officer made it a point of honour to tilt head-foremost once a day. There was no refinement preserved from the good old wars of chivalry which was not familiar to our gallant fellows, and I had expressly forbidden every species of cerebral exercise. Nothing, I have always said, is so hurtful to the temper of an army as for the rank and file to suspect that they are led by men of brains. APHRODITE. There every one must do you justice, Ares. I never heard even the voice of prejudice raised to accuse you. ARES. No; I do not think any one could have the effrontery to charge me with encouraging that mental effort which is so disastrous to the work of a soldier. The same old practices which led our forefathers to glory--the courage of tigers; the firm belief that if any one tried to be crafty it must be because he is a coward; a bull-front set straight at every obstacle, whatever its nature; a proper contempt for any plan or discovery made since the days of Father Uranus--these are the principles in which I disciplined our troops, and I will not admit that I can have anything to reproach myself with. The circumstances which we were unexpectedly called upon to face were such as could never have been anticipated. APHRODITE. I do not see that you could have done otherwise than, as you did, to refuse with dignity to anticipate anything so revolutionary. ARES. There are certain things which one seems to condone by merely acknowledging their existence. That employment of mobile mechanisms, for instance---- APHRODITE. Do not speak of it! I could never have believed that the semblance of the military could be made so excessively distasteful to me. ARES. Can I imagine myself admitting the necessity of guarding against such an ungentlemanlike form of attack? APHRODITE. Your friends are all aware, Ares, that if the conditions were to return, you would never demean yourself and them by guarding against anything of the kind. But I advise you not to brood upon the past. Your figure will suffer. You must keep up your character for solid and agile exercises. ARES. It will not be easy for me to occupy myself here. I am accustomed, as you know, to hunting and slaying. I thought I might have enjoyed some sport with the barbarian islanders, and I selected one for the purpose. But Zeus intervened, with that authority which even here, in our shattered estate, we know not how to resist. APHRODITE. Did he give any reason for preventing the combat? ARES. Yes; and his reasons (I was bound to admit) carried some weight with them. He said, first, that it was wrong to kill those who had received us with so generous a hospitality; and secondly, that, as I am no longer immortal, this brawny savage, with hair so curiously coiled and matted over his brain-pan, might kill me; and thirdly, that the whole affair might indirectly lead to his, Zeus', personal inconvenience. Here then is enjoyment by one door quite shut out from me. APHRODITE. Are there not deer in these woods, and perhaps wolves and boars? There must be wild duck on the firth, and buzzards in the rocks. Instead of challenging the barbarians to a foolish trial of strength, why not make them your companions, and learn their accomplishments? ARES. It is possible that I shall do so. But for the present, anger gushes like an intermittent spring of bitter water in my bosom. I forget for a moment, and the fountain falls; and then, with a rush, memory leaps up in me, a column of poison. I say to myself, It cannot be, it shall not be; but I grow calm again and find that it is. APHRODITE. The worst of the old immortality was the carelessness of it. We were utterly unprepared for anything bordering on catastrophe, and behold, without warning, we are swept away in a complete cataclysm of our fortunes. I see, Ares, that it will be long before you can recover serenity, or take advantage of the capabilities of our new existence. They will appeal to you more slowly than to the rest of us, and you will respond more unwillingly, because of your lack--your voluntary and boasted lack--of all intellectual suppleness. ARES. It is not the business of a soldier to be supple. APHRODITE. So it appears. And you will suffer for it. For, stiff and blank as you may determine to be, circumstances will overpower you. Under their influences you will not be able to avoid becoming softer and more redundant. But you will resist the process, I see, and you will make it as painful as you can. ARES. You discuss my case with a cheerful candour, Aphrodite. Are you sure of being happier yourself? APHRODITE. Not _sure_; but I have a reasonable confidence that I shall be fairly contented. For I, at least, am supple, and I court the influences which you think it a point of gallantry to resist. ARES. You will continue, I suppose, to make your main business the stimulating and the guiding of the affections? Here I admit that suppleness, as you call it, is in place. APHRODITE. Unfortunately, even here, immortality was no convenient prelude to our present state. We did not, indeed, neglect the heart---- ARES. If I forget all else, there must be events---- APHRODITE. Alas! we loved so briefly and with so facile a susceptibility, that I am tempted to ask myself whether in Olympus we really loved at all. ARES [_with ardour_]. There, at least, memory supplies me with no sort of doubt---- APHRODITE [_coldly_]. Let us keep to generalities. Looking broadly at our experience, I should say that the misfortune of the gods, as a preparation for their mortality, was that in their deathless state the affections fell at the foot of the tree, like these withered leaves. We should have fastened the branches of life together in long elastic wires of the thin-drawn gold of perdurable sentiment. ARES. The rapture, the violence, the hammering pulse, the bursting heart,--I see no resemblance between these and the leaves that flutter at our feet. APHRODITE. These leaves had their moment of vitality, when the sap rushed through their veins, when their tissue was like a ripple of sparkling emerald on the face of the smiling sky. But they could not preserve their glow, and they are the more hopelessly dead now, because they burned in their green fire so fiercely. ARES. We felt no shadow of coming disability strike across our pleasures. APHRODITE. No; but that was precisely what made our immortality such an ill preparation for a brief existence on this island. In Olympus the sentiment of yesterday was forgotten, and we realised the passion of to-day as little as the caprice of to-morrow. Perhaps this fragmentary tenderness was the real chastisement of our implacable prosperity. ARES [_in a very low voice_]. Can we not resume in this our exile, and with more prospect of continuity, the emotions which were so agreeable in our former state? So agreeable--although, as you justly say, too ephemeral [_coming a little closer_]. Can you not teach us to moderate and to prolong the rapture? APHRODITE [_rising to her feet_]. It may be. We shall see, Ares. But one thing I have already perceived. In this mortal sphere, the heart needs solitude, it needs silence. It must have its questionings and its despairs. The triumphant supremacy of the old emotions cannot be repeated here. For we have a new enemy to contend with. Even if love should prosecute its conquests here in all the serenity of success, it will not be able to escape from an infliction worse than any which we dreamed of when we were immortals. ARES. And what is that, Aphrodite? APHRODITE. The blight of indifference. VI [APHRODITE _and_ CIRCE _are seated on the grass in a little dell surrounded by beechwoods. Far away a bell is heard._] CIRCE. What is that curious distant sound? Is it a bird? APHRODITE. Cydippe tells me that there is a temple on the hill beyond these woods. I wonder to whom amongst us it is dedicated? CIRCE. I think it must be to you, Aphrodite, for now it is explained that on coming hither I met a throng of men and maidens, sauntering slowly along in twos, exactly as they used to do at Paphos. APHRODITE. Were they walking apart, or wound together by garlands? CIRCE. They were wound together by the arm of the boy coiled about the waist of the girl, or resting upon it, a symbol, no doubt, of your cestus. APHRODITE [_eagerly_]. With any animation of gesture, Circe? CIRCE. With absolutely none. The maidens were dressed--but not all of them--in robes of that very distressing electric blue that bites into the eye, that blue which never was on sky or sea, and which was absolutely banished from every colour-combination in Olympus. It was employed in Hades as a form of punishment, if you recollect. APHRODITE. No doubt, then, this procession was a penitential one, and its object to appease my offended deity. But what a mistake, poor things! No one ever regained my favour by making a frump of herself. CIRCE. After these couples, came, in a very slow but formless moving group, figures of a sombre and spectral kind, draped, both males and females, in dull black, with little ornaments of gold in their hands. It was with the utmost amazement that, on their coming closer, I recognised some of the faces as those of the ruddy, gentle barbarians to whom we owe our existence here. You cannot think how painful it was to see them thus travestied. In their well-fitting daily dress they look very attractive in a rustic mode; there is one large one that labours in the barn, who reminds me, when his sleeves are turned up, of Ulysses. But, oh! Aphrodite, you must contrive to let them know that you pardon their shortcomings, and relieve them from the horrors of this remorseful costume. I know not which is more depressing to the heart, the blue of the young or the black of the aged. APHRODITE. I expect that at this distance from the centre of things, all manner of misconception has crept into my ritual. Of course, I cannot now demand any rites, and that the dear good people should pay them at all is very touching. CIRCE. Don't you think that it would be delightful to introduce here a purer form of liturgy? It is very sad to see your spirit so little understood. APHRODITE. Well, I hardly know. It is kind of you, Circe, to suggest such a thing. No doubt it would be very pleasant. But I feel, of course, the hollowness of the whole concern. We must be careful not to deceive the barbarians. CIRCE. Certainly ... oh! yes, certainly. But ... I am sure it would be so good for them to have a ritual to follow. We should not absolutely assert to them that you still exist as an immortal, but I do not see why we should insist on tearing every illusion away from them. Suppose I could persuade them that you were no longer displeased with them, and that you were quite willing to let them wear pink and white robes again, and plenty of flowers in their hair; and suppose I encouraged them to sacrifice turtle-doves on your altar, and arrange garlands of wild roses in the proper way, don't you think you could bring yourself to make a concession? APHRODITE. What do you mean by a "concession"? CIRCE. Well, for instance, when they were all assembled in the temple, and had sung a hymn, and the priest had gone up to the altar, could you not suddenly make an appearance, voluminous and splendid, and smile upon them? Could you not shower a few champak-blossoms over the congregation? APHRODITE. It is very ingenious of you to think of these things. But I suppose it would not be right to attempt to do it. In the first place it would encourage them to believe in my immortality---- CIRCE. Oh! but to _believe_ is such a salutary discipline to the lower classes. That is the whole principle of religion, surely, Aphrodite? It is not for people like ourselves. You know how indolent Dionysus is, but he always attended the temple when he was hunting upon Nysa. APHRODITE. There is a great deal in that argument, no doubt. Only, what will be the result when they discover that it is all a mistake, and that I am a mortal like themselves? CIRCE. You never can be a mortal like the barbarians, for you have been a force ruling the sea, and the flowers, and the winds, and twisting the blood of man and woman in your fingers like a living skein of soft red silk. They will always worship you. It may not be in temples any longer, not with a studied liturgy, but wherever the sap rises in a flower, or the joy of life swims up in the morning through the broken film of dreams, or a young man perceives for the first time that the girl he meets is comely, you will be worshipped, Aphrodite, for the essence of your immortality is the cumulative glow of its recurrent mortality. HERMES [_entering abruptly_]. You will be disappointed---- CIRCE. Ah! you followed the youths and maidens to the little temple of our friend. Is it not beautiful? HERMES. It is hideous. CIRCE. Are you sure that it is a temple at all? HERMES. I confess that I was for a long time uncertain, but on the whole I believe that it is. APHRODITE. But is it dedicated to me? HERMES. That is the disappointment.... It is best to tell you at once that I see no evidence whatever that it is. CIRCE. I am very much disappointed. APHRODITE. I am very much relieved. But could you not gather from the decoration of the interior to whom of us it is inscribed? HERMES. It is not decorated at all: whitewashed walls, wooden benches, naked floors. CIRCE. But what is the nature of the sculpture? HERMES. I could see no sculpture, except a sort of black tablet, with names upon it, and at the sides two of the youthful attendants of Eros--those that have wings, indeed, but cannot rest. These were exceedingly ill-carven in a kind of limestone. And I hardly like to tell you what I found behind the altar---- APHRODITE. I am not easily shocked. My poor worshippers sometimes demand a very considerable indulgence. CIRCE. Nothing very ugly, I hope? HERMES. Yes; very ugly, and still more incomprehensible. But nothing that could spring out of any misconception of the ritual of our friend. No; I hardly like to tell you. Well, a gaunt painted figure, with spines about the bleeding forehead---- APHRODITE. Was it fastened to any symbol? Did you notice anything that explained the horror of it? HERMES. No. I did not observe it very closely. As I was glancing at it, the celebration or ritual, or whatever we are to call it, began, and I withdrew to the door, not knowing what frenzy might seize upon the worshippers. APHRODITE. There was a cannibal altar in Arcadia to Phoebus, so I have heard. He instantly destroyed it, and scattered the ignorant savages who had raised it. HERMES. There was a touch of desolate majesty about this figure. I fear that it portrays some blighting Power of suffering or of grief. [_He shudders._] APHRODITE. There are certainly deities of whom we knew nothing in Olympus. Perhaps this is the temple of some Unknown God. HERMES. I admit that I thought, with this picture, and with their sinister garments of black and of blue, and with the bareness and harshness of the temple, that something might be combined which it would give me no satisfaction to witness. I placed myself near the door, where, in a moment, I could have regained the exquisite forest, and the odour of this carpet of woodruff, and your enchanting society. But nothing occurred to disconcert me. After genuflexions and liftings of the voice---- APHRODITE. What was the object of these? HERMES. I absolutely failed to determine. Well, the priest--if I can so describe a man without apparent dedication, robed without charm, and exalted by no visible act of sacrifice--ascended a species of open box, and spoke to the audience from the upturned lid of it. CIRCE. What did he say? Did he explain the religion of his people? HERMES. To tell you the truth, Circe, although I listened with what attention I could, and although the actual language was perfectly clear to me--you know I am rather an accomplished linguist--I formed no idea of what he said. I could not find the starting-point of his experience. CIRCE. To whom can this temple be possibly dedicated? APHRODITE. Depend upon it, it is not a temple at all. What Hermes was present at was unquestionably some gathering of local politicians. Poor these barbarians may be, but they could not excuse by poverty such a neglect of the decencies as he describes. No flowers, no bright robes, no music of stringed instruments, no sacrifice--it is quite impossible that the meanest of sentient beings should worship in such a manner. And as for the picture which you saw behind what you took to be the altar, I question not that it is used to keep in memory some ancestor who suffered from the tyranny of his masters. In the belief that he was assisting at a process of rustic worship, our poor Hermes has doubtless attended a revolutionary meeting. CIRCE. Dreadful! But may its conflicts long keep outside the arcades of this delightful woodland! HERMES. And still we know not to which of us the mild barbarians pray! VII [_The same scene, but no one present. A butterfly flits across from the left, makes several pirouettes and exit to the right._ HERA _enters quickly from the left_.] HERA. Could I be mistaken? What is this overpowering perfume? Is it conceivable that in this new world odours take corporeal shape? Anything is conceivable, except that I was mistaken in thinking that I saw it fly across this meadow. It can only have been beckoning me. [_The butterfly re-enters from the right, and, after towering upwards, and wheeling in every direction, settles on a cluster of meadow-sweet. It is followed from the right by_ EROS. _He and_ HERA _look at one another in silence_.] HERA. You are occupied, Eros. I will not detain you. EROS. I propose to stay here for a little while. Are you moving on? [_Each of them fixes eyes on the insect._] HERA. I must beg you to leave me, or to remain perfectly motionless. I am excessively agitated. EROS. I followed the being which is hanging downwards from that spray of blossom. Does it recall some one to you? HERA. Not in its present position. But I will not pretend, Eros, that it is not the source of my agitation. Look at it now, as it flings itself round the stalk, and opens and waves its fans. Do you still not comprehend? EROS. I see nothing in it now. I am disappointed. HERA. But those great coloured eyes, waxing and waning! Those moons of pearl! The copper that turns to crimson, the turquoise that turns to violet, the greenish, pointed head that swings and rolls its yoke of slender plumage! Ah! Eros, is it possible that you do not perceive that it is a symbol of my peacock, my bird translated into the language of this narrow and suppressed existence of ours? What a strange and exquisite messenger! My poor peacock, with a strident shriek of terror, fled from me on that awful morning, the flames singeing its dishevelled train, its wings helplessly flapping in the torrents of conflagration. It bade me no adieu, its clangour of despair rang forth, an additional note of discord, from the inner courts of my palace. And out of its agony, of its horror, it has contrived to send me this adorable renovation of itself, all its grace and all its splendour reincarnated in this tiny creature. But alas! how am I to capture, how to communicate with it? EROS. I hesitate to disturb your illusion, Hera. But you are singularly mistaken. I have a far greater interest in this messenger than you can have; and if you dream its presence to be a tribute to your pride, I am much more tenderly certain that it is a reproach to my affections. See, those needlessly gaudy wings,--a mere disguise to bring it through the multitude of its enemies--are closed now, and it resumes its pendulous attitude, as aërial as an evening cloud, as graceful as sorrow itself, sable as the shadow of a leaf in the moonlight. HERA. Whom do you suppose it to represent, Eros? EROS. "Represent" is an inadequate word. I know it to be, in some transubstantiation, the exact nature of which I shall have to investigate, my adored and injured Psyche. You never appreciated her, Hera. HERA. It was necessary in such a society as ours to preserve the hierarchical distinctions. She was a charming little creature, and I never allowed myself to indulge in the violent prejudice of your mother. When you presented her at last, I do not think that you had any reason to reproach me with want of civility. [_The butterfly dances off._] HERA _and_ EROS _together_. It is gone. [_A pause._] HERA. We are in a curious dilemma. Unless we are to conceive that two of the lesser Olympians have been able to combine in adopting a symbolic disguise, either you or I have been deceived. That tantalising visitant can scarcely have been at the same time Psyche and my peacock. EROS. I know not why; and for my part am perfectly willing to recognise its spots and moons to your satisfaction, if you will permit me to recognise my own favourite in the garb of grief. HERA. My bird was ever a masquerader--it may be so. EROS. Psyche, also, was not unaccustomed to disguises. HERA. You take the recollection coolly, Eros. EROS. Would you have me shriek and moan? Would you have me throw myself in convulsive ecstasy upon that ambiguous insect? You are not the first, Hera, who has gravely misunderstood my character. I am not, I have never been, a victim of the impulsive passions. The only serious misunderstandings which I have ever had with my illustrious mother have resulted from her lack of comprehension of this fact. _She_ is impulsive, if you will! Her existence has been a succession of centrifugal adventures, in which her sole idea has been to hurl herself outward from the solitude of her individuality. I, on the other hand, leave very rarely, and with peculiar reluctance, the rock-crystal tower from which I watch the world, myself unavoidable and unattainable. My arrows penetrate every disguise, every species of physical and spiritual armour, but they are not turned against my own heart. I have always been graceful and inconspicuous in my attitudes. The image of Eros, with contorted shoulders and projected elbows, aiming a shaft at himself, is one which the Muse of Sculpture would shudder to contemplate. HERA. Then what was the meaning of your apparent infatuation for Psyche? EROS. O do not call it "apparent." It was genuine and it was all-absorbing. But it was absolutely exceptional. Looking back, it seems to me that I must have been gazing at myself in a mirror, and have dismissed an arrow before I realised who was the quarry. It is not necessary to remind you of the circumstances---- HERA. You would, I suppose, describe them as exceptional? EROS. As wholly exceptional. And could I be expected to prolong an ardour so foreign to my nature? The victim of passion cannot be a contemplator at the same moment, and I may frankly admit to you, Hera, that during the period of my infatuation for Psyche, there were complaints from every province of the universe. It was said that unless my attention could be in a measure diverted from that admirable girl, there would be something like a stagnation of general vitality. Phoebus remarked one day, that if the ploughman became the plough the cessation of harvests would be inevitable. HERA. It was at that moment, I suppose, that you besought Zeus so passionately to confer upon Psyche the rank of a goddess? EROS. You took that, no doubt, for an evidence of my intenser infatuation. An error; it was a proof that the arguments of the family were beginning to produce their effect upon me. I perceived my responsibility, and I recognised that it was not the place of the immortal organiser of languishment to be sighing himself. To deify my lovely Psyche was to recognise her claim, and--and---- HERA. To give you a convenient excuse for neglecting her? EROS. It is that crudity of yours, Hera, which has before now made your position in Olympus so untenable. You lack the art of elegant insinuation. HERA. Am I then to believe that you were playing a part when you seemed a little while ago so anxious to recognise Psyche in the drooping butterfly? EROS. Oh! far from it. The sentiment of recognition was wholly genuine and almost rapturously pleasurable. It is true that in the confusion of our flight I had not been able to give a thought to our friend, who was, unless I am much mistaken, absent from her palace. Nor will I be so absurd as to pretend that I have, for a long while past, felt at all keenly the desire for her company. She has very little conversation. There are certain peculiarities of manner, which---- HERA. I know exactly what you mean. My peacock has a very peculiar voice, and---- EROS [_impatiently_]. You must permit me to protest against any comparison between Psyche and your worthy bird. But I was going to say that the moment I saw the brilliant little discrepancy which led us both to this spot--and to which I hesitate to give a more definite name--I was instantly and most pleasantly reminded of certain delightful episodes, of a really charming interlude, if I may so call it. I cannot be perfectly certain what connection our ebullient high-flyer has with the goddess whose adorer I was and whose friend I shall ever be. But the symbol--if it be no more than a symbol--has been sufficient to awaken in me all that was most enjoyable in our relations. I shall often wander in these woods, among the cloud-like masses of odorous blossom, in this windless harbour of sunlight and the murmur of leaves, in the hope of finding the little visitant here. She will never fail to remind me, but without disturbance, of all that was happiest in a series of relations which grew at last not so wholly felicitous as they once had been. One of the pleasures this condition of mortality offers us, I foresee, is the perpetual recollection of what was delightful in the one serious liaison of my life, and of nothing else. HERA. Aphrodite would charge you with cynicism, Eros. EROS. It would not be the first time that she has mistaken my philosophy for petulance. VIII [_On the terrace beside the house are seated_ PERSEPHONE, MAIA, _and_ CHLORIS. _The afternoon is rapidly waning, and lights are seen to twinkle on the farther shore of the sea. As the twilight deepens, from just out of sight a man's voice is heard singing as follows_:] _As I lay on the grass, with the sun in the west, A woman went by me, a babe at her breast; She kissed it and pressed it, She cooed, she caressed it, Then rocked it to sleep in her elbow-nest._ _She rocked it to rest with a sad little song, How the days were grown short, and the nights grown long; How love was a rover, How summer was over, How the winds of winter were shrill and strong._ _We must haste, she sang, while the sky is bright, While the paths are plain and the town's in sight, Lest the shadows that watch us Should creep up and catch us, For the dead walk here in the grass at night._ [_The voice withdraws farther down the woods, but from a lower distance, in the clear evening, the last stanza is heard repeated. The_ GODDESSES _continue silent, until the voice has died away_.] CHLORIS. Rude words set to rude music; but they seem to penetrate to the very core of the heart. MAIA. Are you sad to-night, Chloris? CHLORIS. Not sad, precisely; but anxious, feverish, a little excited. PERSEPHONE. Hark! the song begins again. [_They listen, and from far away the words come faintly back:_ _For the dead walk here in the grass at night._] MAIA. The dead! Shall we see them? CHLORIS. Why not? These barbarians appear to avoid them with an invincible terror, but why should we do so? MAIA. I do not feel that it would be possible for the dead to "catch" me, since I should be instantly and keenly watching for them, and much more eager to secure their presence than they could be to secure mine. CHLORIS. We do not know of what we speak, for it may very well be that the barbarians have some experience of these beings. Their influence may be not merely malign, but disgusting. MAIA. How ignorant we are! CHLORIS. Surely, Persephone, you must be able to give us some idea of the dead. Were they not the sole occupants of your pale dominions? PERSEPHONE. It is very absurd of me, but really I do not seem to recollect anything about them. MAIA. I suppose you disliked living in Hades very much? PERSEPHONE. Well, I spent six months there every year, to please my husband. But a great deal of my time was taken up in corresponding with my mother. She was always nervous if she did not hear regularly from me. I really feel quite ashamed of my inattention. MAIA. You don't even recall what the inhabitants of the country were like? PERSEPHONE. I recollect that they seemed dreadfully wanting in vitality. They came in troops when I held a reception; they swept by.... I cannot remember what they were like---- CHLORIS. It must have been dreary for you there, Persephone. PERSEPHONE. Well, we had our own interests. I believe I did my duty. It seemed to me that I must be there if Pluto wished it, and I was pleased to be with him. But--if you can understand me--there was a sort of a dimness over everything, and I never entered into the political life of the place. As to the social life, you can imagine that they were not people that one cared to know. At the same time, of course, I feel now how ridiculous it was of me to hold that position and not take more interest. MAIA. Demeter, of course, never encouraged you to make any observation of the manners and customs of Hades. PERSEPHONE. Oh, no! that was just it. She always said: "Pray don't let me hear the least thing about the horrid place." You remember that she very strongly disapproved of my going there at all---- CHLORIS. Yes; I remember that Arethusa, when she brought me back my daffodils, told me how angry Demeter was---- PERSEPHONE. And yet she was quite nice to my husband when once Zeus had decided that I had better go. [_There is a pause._ MAIA _rises and leans on the parapet, over the woods, now drowned in twilight, to the sea, which still faintly glitters. She turns and comes back to the other two, standing above them._] MAIA. I, too, might have observed something as I went sailing over the purpureal ocean. But I was always talking to my sisters. The fact is we all of us neglected to learn anything about death. CHLORIS. We thought of it as of something happening in that world of Hades which could never become of the slightest importance to us. Who could have imagined that we should have to take it into practical account? MAIA. Well, now we shall have to accept it, to be prepared for its tremendous approach. CHLORIS [_after a pause_]. Perhaps this famous "death" may prove after all to be only another kind of life. [_Rising and approaching_ MAIA.] Don't you think this is indicated even by the song of these barbarians? Besides, our stay here must be the ante-chamber to something wholly different. MAIA. We can hardly suppose that it can lead to nothing. CHLORIS. No; surely we shall put off more or less leisurely, with dignity or without it, the garments of our sensuous existence, and discover something underneath all these textures of the body? PERSEPHONE. One of our priests in Hades, I do remember, sang that silence was a voice, and declared that even in the deserts of immensity the soul was stunned and deafened by the chorus and anti-chorus of nature. CHLORIS. What did he mean? What is the soul? MAIA. I must confess that in this our humility, our corporeal degradation, instead of feeling crushed, I am curiously conscious of a wider range of sensibility. Perhaps that is the soul? Perhaps, in the suppression of our immortality, something metallic, something hermetical, has been broken down, and already we stand more easily exposed to the influences of the spirit? CHLORIS. In that case, to slough the sheaths of the body, one by one, ought to be to come nearer to the final freedom, and the last coronation and consecration of existence may prove to be this very "death" we dread so much. PERSEPHONE. I can fancy that such conjectures as these may prove to be one of the chief sources of satisfaction in this new mortality of ours: the variegated play of light and shadow thrown upon it. Well, the less we know and see, the more exciting it ought to be to guess and to peer. MAIA. And some of us, depend upon it, will be able to persuade ourselves that we alone can use our eyesight in the pitch profundity of darkness, and these will find a peculiar pleasure in tormenting the others who have less confidence in their imagination. [_They seat themselves, and are silent. Far away is once more faintly heard the song, and then it dies away. A long silence. Then, a confused hum of cries and voices is heard, and approaches the terrace from below. The Goddesses start to their feet. From the left appear_ SILVANUS, ALCYONE _and_ FAUNA, _bearing the body of_ CYDIPPE, _which they place very carefully on the grass in front of the scene_.] CHLORIS [_in an excited whisper_]. Is this our first experience of the mystery? FAUNA _and_ ALCYONE. She is dead! She is dead! MAIA. The first of the immortals to succumb to the burden of mortality! SILVANUS. Where is Æsculapius? Call him, call him! MAIA. He cannot bring back the dead. PERSEPHONE. What has happened? Cydippe is livid, her limbs are stark, her eyes are wide open, and motionless, and unnaturally brilliant. SILVANUS [_to_ CHLORIS]. She was gathering a little posy of your wild flowers--eyebright, and crane's bills and small blue pansies, when---- FAUNA. There glided out of the intertwisted fibres of the blue-berries a serpent---- ALCYONE. Grey, with black arrows down the spine, and a flat, diabolical head---- FAUNA. And Cydippe never saw it, and stretched out her hand again, and--see---- SILVANUS. The viper fixed his fangs here, in the blue division of the vein, here in her translucent wrist. See, it swells, it darkens! FAUNA. And with a scream she fell, and swooned away, and died, turning backwards, so that her hair caught in the springy herbage, and her head rolled a little in her pain, so that her hair was loosened and tightened, and look, there are still little tufts of blue-berry leaves in her hair. SILVANUS. But here comes Æsculapius. [_They all greet_ ÆSCULAPIUS, _who enters from the left, with his basket of remedies_.] PERSEPHONE. Ah! sage master of simples, this is a problem beyond thy solution, a case beyond thy cure. ÆSCULAPIUS [_to the goddesses_]. You think that Cydippe is dead? MAIA. Unquestionably. The savage viper has slain her. ÆSCULAPIUS. Then prepare to behold what should seem a greater miracle to you than to me. But, first, Silvanus, bind a strip of clothing very tightly round the upper part of her arm, for no more than we can help of those treasonable messengers must fly posting from the wound to Cydippe's heart. PERSEPHONE [_sententiously_]. It can receive no more such messages. ÆSCULAPIUS. I think you are mistaken. And now, Fauna, a few drops of water in this cup from the trickling spring yonder. That is well. Stand farther away from Cydippe, all of you. PERSEPHONE. What are those pure white needles you drop into the water? How quickly they dissolve. Ah! he lays the mixture to Cydippe's wound. She sighs; her eyelids close; her heart is beating. What is this magic, Æsculapius? ÆSCULAPIUS. Do not tell your husband, Persephone, or he will complain to Zeus that I am depriving him of his population. But if there is magic in this, there is no miracle. [_To the others._] Take her softly into the house and lay her down. She will take a long sleep, and will wake at the end of it with no trace of the poison or recollection of her suffering. [_They carry_ CYDIPPE _forth_. PERSEPHONE, MAIA, _and_ ÆSCULAPIUS _remain_.] MAIA. Then--she was not dead? ÆSCULAPIUS. No; it was but the poison-swoon, which precedes death, if it be not arrested. MAIA. How rejoiced I am! PERSEPHONE. One would say your joy had disappointed you. MAIA. No, indeed, for I am attached to Cydippe, but oh! Persephone, it is strange to be at the very threshold of the mystery---- PERSEPHONE. And to have the opening door shut in our faces? Perhaps ... next time ... they may not be able to find Æsculapius. IX [_The terrace, as in the first scene_; ZEUS _enters from the house, conducted by_ HEBE _and several of the lesser divinities_.] HEBE. Will your Majesty be pleased to descend to the lower boskage? ZEUS. No! Place my throne here, out of the wind, in the sun, which seems to have very little fire left in it, but some pleasant light still. The sea down there is bright again to-day; the carrying of our unfortunate person upon its surface was probably the source of immense alarm to it. It quaked and blackened continuously. Now we are removed, it regains something of its normal quiescence. I trust that the land hereabouts is dowered with a less painful susceptibility. GANYMEDE. A priest, sire, the only one who saved his musical instrument through our calamities, stands within. Is your Majesty disposed to be sung to? ZEUS. No, certainly not. Which is he? [_The_ PRIEST _is pointed out_.] What an odd-looking person! Yes, he may give me a specimen of his art--a short one. [_The_ PRIEST _comes forward; he is dressed in wild Thessalian raiment. He approaches with uncouth gestures, and a mixture of servility and self-consciousness. On receiving a nod from_ ZEUS, _he tunes his instrument and sings as follows_:] _Wild swans winging Through the blue, Spiders springing To a clue, Till the sparkling drops renew All that ever Youth's endeavour Had determined to undo. White and blue are hoards of treasure, For the panting hands of pleasure To go dropping, dropping, dropping, Without measure Through and through._ ZEUS. Very pretty, I must say. Would you repeat it again? [PRIEST _repeats it again_.] ZEUS. What does it ... exactly _mean_? I think it quite pretty, you understand. PRIEST. Does your Majesty receive any impression from it? ZEUS. Well, I don't know that I could precisely parse it. But it is very pretty. Yes, I think I gain a certain impression from it. PRIEST. Do you not feel, sire, a peculiar sense of flush, of spring-tide--a direct juvenile ebullience? ZEUS. Ah, no doubt, no doubt. And a kind of nostalgia, or harking-back to happier days, a sense of their rapid passage, and their irrecoverability. Is that right? PRIEST. It is a positive divination! ZEUS. I am conscious of the agreeable recollection of an incident---- PRIEST [_with rapture_]. Ah!---- ZEUS. A little event?---- PRIEST. You make my heart beat so high, sire, that I can hardly speak. Deign, sire, to recall that incident. ZEUS [_with extreme affability_]. It was hardly an incident.... I merely happened, while you were reciting your song, to remember an occasion on which--on which Iris, at the rampart of our golden wall, bending back, was caught by the wind, and--and the contours were delicious. PRIEST. Oh! the word, the word! ZEUS [_with slight hauteur_]. I do not follow you. Her rainbow---- PRIEST. Ah! yes, sire, the rainbow, the rainbow! O what an art of incontestable divination! ZEUS [_much animated_]. But you did not say anything about a rainbow, nor describe one, nor ever mention the elements of such a bow. PRIEST. Ah! no, sire. That is the art of the New Poetry. It names nothing, it describes nothing. All that it designs to do is to place the mind of the listener--of the august and perspicacious listener--in such an attitude as that the unnamed, the undescribed object rises full in vision. The poet flings forth his melody, and to the gross ear it seems a mere tinkle of inanity. That is simply because the crowd who worship at the shrine of the Sminthean Apollo have been accustomed by an old-fashioned and ridiculously incompetent priesthood to look for an instant and mechanical relation between sound and sense. I would not exaggerate, sire; but the kind of poetry lately cultivated, not only at Delphi, but in Delos also, is simply obsolete. ZEUS [_suspiciously_]. Again I am not sure that I quite follow you. PRIEST. To your Majesty, at least, the New Poetry opens its casket as widely as the rose-bud does to the zephyr. ZEUS. I can follow that--but it rather reminds me of the Old Poetry. PRIEST. It was intended to do so. What promptitude of mind! What divine penetration! ZEUS [_affably_]. I have always believed that if I had enjoyed leisure from public life, I should have excelled in my judgment of the fine arts. [_To the_ PRIEST, _with gravity_.] You are a gifted young man. Be sure that you employ your talents with discretion. Such an intellect as yours carries responsibility with it. I shall be quite pleased to permit you to recite "The Rainbow" to me again. [_The_ PRIEST _prepares to recite it_.] ZEUS. Oh, not now! Some other time! [_Graciously dismisses the_ PRIEST.] ZEUS [_after a long pause_]. The attitude of my family, in these ambiguous circumstances, is everything that could be desired. My original feeling of irritability has passed away. I should have supposed it to be what Pallas calls "fatigue," a confusion or discord of the nerve-centres, which she tells me is incident to mortality. What Pallas can possibly know about it is more than I can guess, especially, as there were not infrequent occasions on Olympus itself on which my Supreme Godhead was disturbed by flashes of what I should be forced to describe as exasperation, states of mind in which I formed--and indeed executed--the sudden project of breaking something. These were, I believe, simply the result of an excessive sense of responsibility. I am not one of those who conceive that the duty of deity is to sit passive beside the cup of nectar. Here on this island, in the permanent absence of that refreshment, I reflect (I perceive that I shall have very frequent opportunities for reflection) that I was perhaps only too anxious to preserve the harmony of heaven. My sense of decorum--may it not have been excessive? From below, as I imagine, from the stations occupied--I will not say by the inanimate or half-animate creation, such as insects, or men, or minerals--but by the demi-gods, I take it that the dignity and orbic beauty of our court appeared sublimely immaculate. In the inner circle, alas! no one knows better than I do that there were--well, dissensions. I will go further, in candour to myself, and admit that these occasionally led to excesses. I cannot charge my recollection with my having done anything to excuse or encourage these. The personal conduct of the Sovereign was always, I cannot but believe, above reproach. But the eccentricities--if I may style them so--of certain of my children were sometimes regrettable. I wonder that they did not age me; they would do so immediately in my present condition. But in this island, where we are to swarm like animalcules in a drop of water, I shall be relieved of all responsibility. Where there is no one to notice that errors are committed, no errors _are_ committed. As the person of most experience in the whole world, I do not mind stating my ripe opinion that a fault which has no effect upon political conditions is in no sensible degree a fault at all. Pallas would contend the point, I suppose, but I am at ease. I shall not allow the conduct of my children, except as it shall regard myself, to affect my good-humour in the slightest degree. [PHOEBUS _enters, slowly pacing across the terrace_.] ZEUS. Your planet seems to have recovered something of its tone, Phoebus. PHOEBUS. If, father, you regard--as you have every right to do--your venerable person as the centre of my interests, I rejoice to allow that this seems to be the case. ZEUS [_with a touch of reserve_]. I meant that the sun shows a tendency to return to its forgotten orbit. It is quite warm here out of the wind. [_More genially._] But as to myself, I admit a great recovery in my spirits. I have given up fretting for Iris, who was certainly lost on our way here, and Pallas has been showing me a curious little jewel she brought with her, which has created in me a kind of wistful cheeriness. I do not remember to have experienced anything of the kind before. PHOEBUS. I declare I believe that you will adapt yourself as well as the rest of us to this anomalous existence. ZEUS. We shall see; and I shall have so much time now, that I may even--what I am sure ought to gratify you, Phoebus,--be able to give my attention to the fine arts. A fallen monarch can always defy adversity by forming a collection of curiosities. PHOEBUS. If you make the gem of which Pallas is so proud the nucleus of your cabinet, I feel convinced that it will give you lasting satisfaction. And we are so poor now that it can never be complete, and therefore never become tiresome. But what was it that the oracle of Nemea amused and puzzled us by saying, "To form a collection is well, yet to take a walk is better"? I will attend your Majesty to your apartments, and then wander in these extensive woods. [_Exeunt._ X [_A dell below the house, with a white poplar-tree growing alone. Under it_ HERACLES _sits, in an attitude of deep dejection, his club fallen at his feet, a horn empty at his side. To him enters_ EROS.] EROS. I have been congratulating our friends on their surpassing cheerfulness. Even Zeus is displaying a marvellous longanimity in his adverse state, and Pallas is positively frivolous. We must have disembarked, however, upon the island of Paradox, for everything goes by contraries; here I find you, Heracles, commonly so serene and uplifted, sunken in the pit of depression. You should squeeze the breath out of your melancholy, as you did out of Hera's snakes so long ago. HERACLES. That was a foolish tale. Do you not recollect that I am not as the rest of you? EROS. Come, man, brighten up! You look as sulky as you did when I broke your bow and arrows, and set Aphrodite laughing at you. But I have learned manners, and the goddesses only smile now. Cheer up! How is your destiny a whit different from ours? HERACLES. That rude old story about Alcmena, Eros--it is impossible that you can be the dupe of that? When I hunted lions on Cithaeron--that really _was_ a gentlemanlike sport, my friend--when I hunted lions I was not a god. Gods don't hunt lions, Eros; I have not gone a-hunting since that curious affair on Mount OEta. You remember it? EROS. I have preferred to forget it. HERACLES. Only an immortal can afford wilfully to forget, and I--well, you know as well as I do that I am only a mortal canonised. I never understood the incident, I confess. I lay down among the ferns to sleep, after an unusually heavy day's bag of monsters. It was sultry weather; I woke to an oppressive sense of singeing, I found myself enveloped in a blaze of leaves and brushwood.... But I bore you, and what does it matter now? What does anything matter? EROS. No, no; pray continue! I am excessively interested. You throw a light on something that has always puzzled me, something that---- HERACLES. A dense black smoke blinded and numbed me. The next moment, as it seemed--perhaps it was the next day--I was hustled up through the æther to Olympus, and dumped down at the foot of Zeus' throne. Perhaps you remember? EROS. Yes, for I was there. HERACLES. All of you were there. And Zeus came down and took me by the wrist. Olympus rang with shouts and the clapping of hands. I was hailed with unanimity as an immortal; the ambrosia melted between my charred lips; I rose up amongst you all, immaculate and fresh. But when, or how, or wherefore I have never known. And now I shall never care to know. EROS. You are a strange mixture, Heracles; strangely contradictory. You never quailed before any scaly horror, you never spared a truculent robber or a noisome beast, nor avoided a laborious act---- HERACLES. These might be quoted, I should have thought, as instances of my consistency. EROS. Yes, but then (you must really forgive me) your weakness in the matter of Omphale did seem, to those who knew you not, like want of self-respect. I have the reputation of shrinking, in the pursuit of pleasure, from no fantastic disguise, but I never sat spinning in the garments of a servant-maid. You must have looked a strange daughter of the plough, Heracles. I blush for you to think of it. HERACLES. It was odd, certainly. Yet if _you_ cannot comprehend it, Eros, I despair of explaining it to anybody. I should never do it again. You must admit I showed no want of firmness afterwards in dealing with Hebe, but then, she never interested me. Is she here? But do not reply, I am not anxious to learn. EROS. Your dejection passes beyond all bounds. You cannot have been shown the singularly cheerful little jewel which Pallas has brought with her? It raises every one's spirits. HERACLES. It will not raise mine; for all of you, Eros, have been immortals from the beginning, and your mortality is a new and pungent flavour on the moral palate. But the taste of it was known of old to me, and I am not its dupe. It simply carries me back to the ancient weary round of ceaseless struggle, unending battle, incessant renascence of the sprouting heads of Hydra; to all that from which the windless Olympus was a refuge. Hope is presented--to one who has tasted it and who knows that it is futile--without reawakening, under such new conditions as we have here, any zest of adventure. The jewel of Pandora may be exhilarating to fallen immortality; it has no lustre whatever for a backsliding mortal. [_Sounds of laughter are heard, and steps ascending from the shore._] EROS [_to_ HERACLES]. Draw your lion's skin about you less negligently, Heracles; I hear visitants approaching. You are not in the woodways of OEta. [_The_ OCEANIDES _rush in from the lower woodlands. They are carrying torches, and arrive in a condition of the highest exhilaration._ EROS _proceeds a step or two to meet them, with a smile and a mock reverence_. HERACLES, _brooding over his knees, does not even raise his eyes at their clamorous entry_.] EROS. Are you proceeding to set our Father Zeus on fire, or do you intend to repeat on our unwilling Heracles the rites of canonisation? Have a care with those absurd flambeaux; you will put all the underwood aflame. What are you doing with torches? AMPHITRITE. It was Hephæstus who gave them to us to hold. He is in a cave down there by the sea, making the most ingenious things in the darkness. He called us in to hold these lights---- DORIS. And oh, Eros, we had such fun, teasing him---- PITHO. He was quite angry at last---- AMPHITRITE. And threatened to nail us to the cliff---- PITHO. And off we ran, and left him in the dark. DORIS. He is coming after us. I never felt so frightened. AMPHITRITE. I never enjoyed myself anywhere so much. PITHO. Come away, come away! If he is going to pursue, let us give him a long chase, and leave him panting at last! [_The_ OCEANIDES _escape, in a tumult of laughter, through the upper woods, as_ HEPHÆSTUS, _limping heavily, and much out of breath, appears from below_.] HEPHÆSTUS The rogues, the rogues! EROS. What a cataract of animal spirits! I am afraid, Hephæstus, that you do not escape, even here, from the echoes of the laughter of heaven. HERACLES [_savagely_]. Follow them, and strike them down. Take my club, Hephæstus, if you have lost your hammer. HEPHÆSTUS. Strike them! Strike the darling rogues? I would as soon wrap your too-celebrated tunic about a little playful marmozet. What is the matter with you, Heracles? HERACLES. What change, indeed, has come over _you_, you sulky artificer? Time was when your pincers would have met in the flesh of maid or man who disturbed you in your work. Have you left your forge to cool for the mere pleasure of clambering after these ridiculous children! Go back to it, Hephæstus, go back and be ashamed. HEPHÆSTUS. You do not seem deeply engaged yourself. You look sourer and idler than the lion's head that dangles at your shoulder. The days are long here, though not too long. My handicraft will spare me for half an hour to sport with these exquisite and affable fragilities. I rather enjoy being laughed at. On Olympus I was rarely troubled by such teasing attentions. The little ones seem to enjoy themselves in their exile, and, to say true, so do I. My work was carried on, I admit, much more smoothly and surely than it can be here, and my hand, I am afraid, in crossing the sea, has lost much of its infallible cunning. But I enjoy the exercise, and I look onward to the art as I never did before, and I seem to have more leisure. Can you explain it, Eros? EROS. I do not attempt to do so, but I feel a similar and equally surprising serenity. Heracles is insensible to it, it seems, and he gives me a sort of reason. HEPHÆSTUS. What is it? EROS. Well ... I am not sure that.... Perhaps I ought to leave him to explain it. HERACLES. You would not be able to comprehend me. I am not sure that I myself---- [_Two of the_ OCEANIDES _re-enter, much more seriously than before, and with an eager importance of gesture_.] AMPHITRITE. We are not playing now. We have a message from Zeus, Hephæstus. He says that he is waiting impatiently for the sceptre you are making for him. DORIS. Yes, you must hurry back to your cave. And we are longing to see what ornament you are putting on the sceptre. Let us come with you. We will hold the torches for you as steadily as if we were made of marble. HEPHÆSTUS. Come, then, come. Let us descend together. I hope that my science has not quitted me. We will see whether even on this rugged shore and with these uncouth instruments, I cannot prove to Zeus that I am still an artist. Come, I am in a hurry to begin. Give me your hands, Amphitrite and Doris. [_Exeunt._ XI [_The glen, through which the stream, slightly flooded by a night's rain, runs faintly turbid._ DIONYSUS, _earnestly engaged in angling, does not hear the approach of_ ÆSCULAPIUS.] ÆSCULAPIUS [_in a high, voluble key_]. It is not to me but to you, O ruddy son of Semele, that the crowds of invalids will throng, if you cultivate this piscatory art so eagerly, since to do nothing, serenely, in the open air, without becoming fatigued, is to storm the very citadel of ill-health, and---- DIONYSUS [_testily, without turning round_]. Hush! hush!... I felt a nibble. ÆSCULAPIUS [_in a whisper, flinging himself upon the grass_]. It was in such a secluded spot as this that Apollo heard the trout at Aroanius sing like thrushes. DIONYSUS. How these poets exaggerate! The trout sang, I suppose, like the missel-thrush. ÆSCULAPIUS. What song has the missel-thrush? DIONYSUS. It does not sing at all. Nor do trout. ÆSCULAPIUS. You are sententious, Dionysus. DIONYSUS. No, but closely occupied. I am intent on the subtle movements of my rod, round which my thoughts and fancies wind and blossom till they have made a thyrsus of it. Now, however, I shall certainly catch no more fish, and so I may rest and talk to you. Are you searching for simples in this glen? ÆSCULAPIUS. To tell you the plain truth, I am waiting for Nike. She has given me an appointment here. DIONYSUS. I have not seen her since we arrived on this island. ÆSCULAPIUS. You have seen her, but you have not recognised her. She goes about in a perpetual incognito. Poor thing, in our flight from Olympus she lost all her attributes--her wings dropped off, her laurel was burned, she flung her armour away, and her palm-tree obstinately refused to up-root itself. DIONYSUS. No doubt at this moment it is obsequiously rustling over the odious usurper. ÆSCULAPIUS. It was always rather a poor palm-tree. What Nike misses most are her wings. She was excessively dejected when we first arrived, but Pallas very kindly allowed her to take care of the jewel for half an hour. Nike--if still hardly recognisable--is no longer to be taken for Niobe. DIONYSUS [_rising to his feet_]. I shall do well, however, to go before she comes. ÆSCULAPIUS. By no means. I should prefer your staying. Nike will prefer it, too. In the old days she always liked you to be her harbinger. DIONYSUS. Not always; sometimes my panthers turned and bit her. But my panthers and my vines are gone to keep her laurels and her palm-tree company. I think I will not stay, Æsculapius. But what does Nike want with you? [_Slowly and pensively descending from the upper woods_, NIKE _enters_.] DIONYSUS. I was excusing myself, Nike, to our learned friend here for not having paid my addresses to you earlier. You must have thought me negligent? NIKE. Oh! Dionysus, I assure you it is not so. Your temperament is one of violent extremes--you are either sparkling with miraculous rapidity of apprehension, or you are sunken in a heavy doze. These have doubtless been some of your sleepy days. And I ... oh! I am very deeply changed. DIONYSUS. No, not at all. Hardly at all. [_He scarcely glances at her, but turns to_ ÆSCULAPIUS.] But farewell to both of you, for I am going down to the sea-board to watch for dolphins. That long melancholy plunge of the black snout thrills me with pleasure. It always did, and the coast-line here curiously reminds me of Naxos. Be kind to Æsculapius, Nike. [_He descends along the water-course, and exit._ NIKE _smiles sadly, and half holds out her arms towards_ ÆSCULAPIUS.] NIKE. It is for you, O brother of Hermes, to be kind to _me_. How altered we all are! Dionysus is not himself.... As I came here, I passed below the little grey precipice of limestone---- ÆSCULAPIUS. Where the marchantias grow? Yes? NIKE. And three girls in white dresses, with wreaths of flowers on their shoulders, were laughing and chatting there in the shade of the great yew-tree. Who do you suppose they were, these laughing girls in white? ÆSCULAPIUS. Perhaps three of the Oceanides, bright as the pure foam of the wave? NIKE. Æsculapius, they were not girls. They were the terrible and ancient Eumenides, black with the curdled blood of Uranus. They were the inexorable Furies, who were wont to fawn about my feet, with the adders quivering in their tresses, tormenting me for the spoils of victory. What does it mean? Why are they in white? As we came hither in the dreadful vessel, they were huddled together at the prow, and their long black raiment hung overboard and touched the brine. They were mumbling and crooning hate-songs, and pointing with skinny fingers to the portents in the sky. What is it that has changed their mood? What is it that can have turned the robes of the Eumenides white, and enamelled their wrinkled flesh with youth? ÆSCULAPIUS. Is it not because a like strange metamorphosis has invaded your own nature that you have come to meet me here? NIKE [_after a pause_]. I am bewildered, but I am not unhappy. I come because the secrets of life are known to you. I come because it was you whom Zeus sent to watch over Cadmus and Harmonia when their dread and comfortable change came over them. They were weary with grief and defeat, tired of being for ever overwhelmed by the ever-mounting wave of mortal fate. I am weary---- ÆSCULAPIUS [_slowly_]. Of what, Nike? Be true to yourself. Of what are you weary? NIKE. I come to you that you may tell. I know no better than the snake knows when his skin withers and bloats. I feel distress, apprehension, no pain, a little fear. ÆSCULAPIUS. You speak of Cadmus and Harmonia; but is not your case the opposite of theirs? They were saved from defeat; is it not your unspoken hope to be saved from victory, saved from what was your essential self? NIKE. Can it be so? I find, it is true, that I look back upon my rush and blaze of battle with no real regret. What a vain thing it was, the perpetual clash and resonance of a victory that no one could withstand; the mockery that conquest must be to an immortal whom no one can ever really oppose;--no veritable difficulty to overcome, no genuine resistance to meet, nothing positively tussled with and thrown, nothing but ghostly armies shrinking and melting a little way in front of my advancing eagles! That can never happen again, and even through the pang of losing my laurel and my wings, I did not genuinely deplore it. Nothing but the sheer intoxication of my immortality had kept me at the pitch. And now that it is gone, oh wisest of the gods, it is for you to tell me how, in this mortal state, I can remain happy and yet be _me_. ÆSCULAPIUS. You are on the high road to happiness; you see its towers over the dust, for you dare to know yourself. NIKE. Myself, Æsculapius? ÆSCULAPIUS. Yes; you have that signal, that culminating courage. NIKE. But it is because I do _not_ know my way that I come to you. ÆSCULAPIUS. To recognise the way is one thing, it is much; but to recognise yourself is infinitely more, and includes the way. NIKE. Ah! I see. I think I partly see. The element of real victory was absent where no defeat could be. ÆSCULAPIUS [_eagerly_]. Dismal, sooty, raven-coloured robes of the Eumenides! NIKE. And it may be present even where no final conquest can ensue? ÆSCULAPIUS. Ah! how white they grow! How the serpents drop out of their tresses. NIKE. I am feeling forward with my finger-tips, like a blind woman searching.... And the real splendour of victory may consist in the helpless mortal state; may blossom there, while it only budded in our immortality? ÆSCULAPIUS. May consist, really, of the effort, the desire, the act of gathering up the will to make the plunge. This will be victory now, it will be the drawing of the bow-string and not the mere cessation of the arrow-flight. XII [_The main terrace, soon after dawn. In the centre_ ZEUS _sits alone, throned and silent. One by one the Gods come out of the house, and arrange themselves in a semicircle, to the left and right, each as he passes making obeisance to_ ZEUS. _It is a perfectly still morning, and a dense white mist hangs over the woods, completely hiding the sea and the farther shore. When all are seated._] ZEUS [_in a very slow voice_]. My children, since we came here I have not been visited until to-night by even a shadow of those forebodings which, in the form of divine prescience, illuminated my plans and your fortunes in Olympus. [_A pause, while the gods lean towards him in deepest attention._] But a dream came close to my pillow last night and whispered to me strange, disquieting words.... I have no longer the art of clairvoyance, but I find I am not wholly dark. Still can I faintly divine the forms of the future, as we may all divine the roll of the woods before us, and the cleft which leads down to the shore, although this impalpable vapour shrouds our world.... And, from the dream, or from my faint perceptions, I am made aware that another mighty change is approaching us. [_A silence._] HERACLES. Can you indicate to us the nature of this change? [_Looking round the semicircle._] If it is permitted to us to do so we would repudiate it. [_The gods in silence signify their assent._] ZEUS [_not replying to_ HERACLES]. When we fled hither from the consuming malignity of the traitor, it was communicated to me that this island on the very uttermost border of the world was left us as a home from which we should never be dislodged. Here we were to dwell in peace, and here ... to grow old, and ... die. Here, in the meantime, new interests, humble wishes, cheerful curiosities have already twined about us, and we have gazed upon Pandora's jewel, and are no more the same. PERSEPHONE. Are we to be driven hence still farther towards the confines of immensity, father? ZEUS. I know not. KRONOS. More journeys, more weary, weary journeys? ZEUS. I know but what I tell you ... that I foresee a change. [_A silence._] How breathless is the air. Not the outline of a leaf is shaken against the sky. PHOEBUS. But the mist grows thinner, and high up in it I see a faint blueness. ZEUS. I do not--nothing but the bewildering woolly whiteness, that chills my eyeballs.... [_With a sudden vivacity._] Ah! yes ... it is the sea! Is Poseidon here? POSEIDON. I went down to the shore very early indeed this morning, before there was an atom of mist in the air. I called upon the glassy, oily sea, and I could not but fancy that, although there was little motion in the wave, it did roll faintly to my foot, and fawn at me in its reply. To me also, father, it seemed as though my element was burdened with a secret which it knew not how to convey to me. [_A silence._] APHRODITE [_aside to_ PALLAS]. If we must be driven forth again, let us at least cling to such new gifts as we have secured here. PALLAS [_in an eager whisper_]. I should like to know what you consider them to be. Do you hold introspection as one of them? APHRODITE. I certainly do. The analysis of one's own feelings, and the sense of watching the fluctuating symptoms of one's individuality, form one of the principal consolations of our mortal state. PALLAS. I think I should give it another name. HERMES [_who has come up behind them, and bending forward has overheard the conversation_]. My name for it would be the indulgence of personal vanity. APHRODITE [_speaks louder, while the conversation becomes general, except that_ ZEUS _takes no part in it_]. You may call it so, if you please, but it is a source of genuine pleasure to us. PHOEBUS. Ignorance is doubtless another of these consolations--ignorance chemically modified by a few drops of the desire for knowledge.... [_Enthusiastically._] And all the chastened forms of recollection, how delightful they are, and how they add to our satisfaction here! NIKE. It would be interesting to me to understand what you mean by chastened forms of recollection. I don't think that is my experience. PALLAS. I conceive memory as a pure, unbiased emotion, an image of past life cast upon an unflawed mirror. Why do you say "chastened"? PHOEBUS. That memory which is nothing but a plain reproduction on the mirror of the mind is a tame concern, Pallas. It transfers, without modification, all that is dull, and squalid, and unessential. The only memory which is worthy of those who have tasted immortality is that which has in some degree been fortified. To recollect with enjoyment is to select certain salient facts from an experience and to be oblivious of the rest; or else it is to heighten the exciting elements of an event out of all proportion with historic fact; or it even is to place what should be in the seat of what precisely was.... But this must be done firmly, logically, with no timidity in reminiscence, so that the mind shall rest in a perfectly artistic conviction that what it recollects is all the truth and nothing but the truth. This is chastened, or, if you prefer it, civilised memory. But Zeus is about to speak. [_The Gods resume their seats in silence._ ZEUS _rises from his throne, and the Gods perceive that the mist has now almost entirely evaporated around them, and that the entire scene is luminous with morning radiance. All the Gods lean forward to gaze on_ ZEUS, _who gazes over and beyond them to the sea_.] ZEUS. The whole bay heaves in one vast wave of unbroken pearl.... And in the east something flashes ... something moves ... approaches. [_All the Gods, except_ KRONOS _and_ RHEA, _rise and follow with their gaze the extended hand of_ ZEUS. POSEIDON _steps forward to the front of the scene and shouts_.] POSEIDON. See! Three huge white ships are coming out of the east, and the waves glide away at their wake in widening glassy hues. How they speed! How they speed, without oar or sail! KRONOS. No rest, no sleep for us. Leave us here behind you, Zeus. We never have any rest. RHEA. Yes; do not drag us farther in the wearisome train of your misfortunes. ZEUS [_benignly, turning to them._] Be not afraid, Rhea and Kronos. But we must not abandon you. For the old sakes' sake we will hold together to the end. ARES. Shall we not collect our forces in unison, mortal as they are, and die together in resisting this invasion? DIONYSUS. The kind barbarians are with us. They will fight at our side. HEPHÆSTUS. Yes, let us fight and die. ZEUS. You have no forces to collect, my sons. We cannot take toll of the blood of the barbarians. We cannot resist, we can but submit and withdraw.... The ships fleet closer. They are like monstrous fishes of living silver. I confess this is not what I anticipated. This is not what my faint dream seemed to indicate. What inspires the implacable destroyer to pursue us, and with this imposing and miraculous navy, to the shore of that harmless exile in which we were endeavouring to forget his existence, I know not. But let us at least preserve that dignity which has survived our deity. Whatever may be now in store for us--if the worst of all things be now hurrying to complete our annihilation--let us meet it with simplicity. Let us meet it with an even mind. CIRCE. Oh, see! what are those filaments of blue and violet and grassy green which flutter in the cordage of the three ships? PHOEBUS. They leap forward, though no wind is blowing. CIRCE. They are arranged in order, and they bend upwards and now outwards. HERA. The colours of them are those which adorn my bird. PALLAS. Ah! wonder of wonders! These have joined one another, see, and now they shoot forward together in a vibrating ribband of delicious lustre, and now it is arched to our shore, and descends at the lowest of these our woodland stairs. ZEUS. A vast rainbow from the three white vessels to this island!... And behold, a figure steps from it. She is robed to the feet in palest watchet blue, and her face is like a rosy star, and she waves her violet wings in the incommunicable speed of her ascent. My children, it is Iris, our lost daughter, our ineffable messenger. Let us await in silence the tidings which she brings. [ZEUS _seats himself, and the Gods take their places as before. The air is now translucent, the sky cloudless, while the beechwoods flash with the lustre of dew, and the sea beyond the white ships is like a floor of turquoise._ IRIS _is seen to rise from the shore, through the gorge in the woods. She approaches, half flying, half climbing, with incredible velocity. She appears, in her splendour, at the top of the stairs, and looks round upon the Gods. Without exception, in the magnificence of her presence they look grey and old and dim. She hesitates a moment, and then kneels before the throne of_ ZEUS.] IRIS. Father and lawgiver! Imperial Master of Heaven! The rebellion in Olympus is over. The usurper has fallen under the weight of his own presumption, lower than the lowest chasms of Hades, chained for all eternity by the fetters of his own insolence and madness. It is not needful for you, Zeus, to punish or to be clement. Under the inevitable rebound of his impious frenzy, himself has sealed his doom for ever and ever. It is now for the Father of Heaven, and these his children, to resume their immortality and to regain their incomparable abodes. Be it my reward for the joyous labour of bringing the good news, to be the first to kiss these awful and eternal feet. [IRIS _flings herself before_ ZEUS _in adoration, and folds her wings about her face. As she touches him, his deity blazes forth from him. When_ IRIS _rises again, she glances round at the Gods with gratified astonishment, for all of them have become brilliant and young_.] ZEUS. Lead the way, Iris. This is no longer a place for us. Lead on and we will follow. Lead on, that we may resume our immortality. [IRIS _flies down to the sea, and_ ZEUS _descends the steps. He is followed by all the other deities._] CIRCE. Were we really happy among these trees? I can scarcely credit it, they seem so common and so frail. NIKE. Ha, my palm and my laurel and my wings. How can I have breathed without them for an hour? APHRODITE [_to_ EROS]. Shall we recollect this little episode when we walk up the golden street presently to our houses? EROS. I cannot think so, mother. That refinement of memory of which Phoebus was speaking will seem the most ridiculous of illusions there. PHOEBUS. Yes; to cultivate illusion, to live in the past, to resuscitate experience, may be the amusements of mortality, but they mean nothing now to us. When Selene re-enters her orb, she will not disquiet herself about the disorders of its interregnum. PALLAS [_hastily reascending_]. I have left Pandora's jewel behind me. I must fetch it. HERMES [_the last to descend_]. Let me confess that I took it from you. One of the barbarians was weeping, and I wished, I cannot tell why, to see her smile. I gave your jewel to her. PALLAS. It is of no moment. It would be an inconspicuous ornament in that blaze of the heart's beauty to which the white ships are about to carry us. HERMES. Come, then, Pallas, and let us linger here no more. [_They descend and disappear._] THE END. Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. London & Edinburgh * * * * * Transcriber's Note Variant spellings in this ebook have been retained to match the original document. The use of an ae-ligature in the name 'Hephæstus' has been regularized. The oe-ligature is represented by 'oe' in the text version of this ebook, and retains the oe-ligature in the HTML version. Ellipses have been regularized. The original text contained duplicate headers for Acts; these duplications have been omitted in this ebook. The following typographical corrections were made to this text: Page 16: Added missing period (EROS.) Page 16: Changed em-dash to long dash to match style of text Page 16: Changed casket to caskets (all the empty caskets) Page 28: Added missing comma (he answered, "Pray don't) Page 101: Changed 'o' to 'of' (It is kind of) Page 132: Added missing period (CHLORIS.) Page 140: Changed 'o' to 'of' (degradation, instead of) 
38011	----	THE POETICAL WORKS OF MR. LEWIS MORRIS. I. SONGS OF TWO WORLDS. With Portrait. Eleventh Edition, price 5_s._ II. THE EPIC OF HADES. With an Autotype Illustration, Nineteenth Edition, price 5_s._ III. GWEN and THE ODE OF LIFE. With Frontispiece. Sixth Edition, price 5_s._ THE EPIC OF HADES. Third Illustrated Edition. With Sixteen Autotype Plates after the Drawings by the late GEORGE R. CHAPMAN, 4to, cloth extra, gilt edges, price 21_s._ THE EPIC OF HADES. The Presentation Edition. 4to, cloth extra, price 10_s._ 6_d._ SONGS UNSUNG. Fourth Edition. Fcap. 8vo, cloth, 6_s._ ** _For Notices of the Press, see end of this Volume._ * LONDON: KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO. THE POETICAL WORKS OF LEWIS MORRIS _VOLUME TWO_ THE EPIC OF HADES LONDON KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO., 1, PATERNOSTER SQUARE 1885 [Illustration: _Then with wings Of gold we soared, I looking in his eyes Over yon dark broad river, and this dim land._ Page 228.] THE EPIC OF HADES IN THREE BOOKS BY LEWIS MORRIS M.A.; HONORARY FELLOW OF JESUS COLLEGE, OXFORD KNIGHT OF THE REDEEMER OF GREECE, ETC., ETC. "DIFFICILE EST PROPRIE COMMUNIA DICERE" NINETEENTH EDITION. LONDON KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO., 1, PATERNOSTER SQUARE 1885 "The three excellences of Poetry: simplicity of language, simplicity of subject, and simplicity of invention"-- _The Welsh Triads_. (_The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved._) TO ALL WHO LOVE THE LITERATURE OF GREECE THIS POEM IS DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS. BOOK I. TARTARUS. PAGE TANTALUS 7 PHÆDRA 23 SISYPHUS 40 CLYTÆMNESTRA 55 BOOK II. HADES. MARSYAS 82 ANDROMEDA 95 ACTÆON 110 HELEN 120 EURYDICE 145 ORPHEUS 150 DEIANEIRA 154 LAOCOON 166 NARCISSUS 175 MEDUSA 188 ADONIS 198 PERSEPHONE 202 ENDYMION 211 PSYCHE 219 BOOK III. OLYMPUS. ARTEMIS 237 HERAKLES 244 APHRODITÉ 248 ATHENÉ 255 HERÉ 261 APOLLO 267 ZEUS 273 BOOK I. TARTARUS. THE EPIC OF HADES. In February, when the dawn was slow, And winds lay still, I gazed upon the fields Which stretched before me, lifeless, and the stream Which laboured in the distance to the sea, Sullen and cold. No force of fancy took My thought to bloomy June, when all the land Lay deep in crested grass, and through the dew The landrail brushed, and the lush banks were set With strawberries, and the hot noise of bees Lulled the bright flowers. Rather I seemed to move Thro' that weird land, Hellenic fancy feigned, Beyond the fabled river and the bark Of Charon; and forthwith on every side Rose the thin throng of ghosts. First thro' the gloom Of a dark grove I strayed--a sluggish wood, Where scarce the faint fires of the setting stars, Or some cold gleam of half-discovered dawn, Might pierce the darkling pines. A twilight drear Brooded o'er all the depths, and filled the dank And sunken hollows of the rocks with shapes Of terror,--beckoning hands and noiseless feet Flitting from shade to shade, wide eyes that stared With horror, and dumb mouths which seemed to cry, Yet cried not. An ineffable despair Hung over them and that dark world and took The gazer captive, and a mingled pang Of grief and anger, grown to fierce revolt And hatred of the Invisible Force which holds The issue of our lives and binds us fast Within the net of Fate; as the fisher takes The little quivering sea-things from the sea And flings them gasping on the beach to die Then spreads his net for more. And then again I knew myself and those, creatures who lie Safe in the strong grasp of Unchanging Law, Encompassed round by hands unseen, and chains Which do support the feeble life that else Were spent on barren space; and thus I came To look with less of horror, more of thought, And bore to see the sight of pain that yet Should grow to healing, when the concrete stain Of life and act were purged, and the cleansed soul, Renewed by the slow wear and waste of time, Soared after æons of days. They seemed alone, Those prisoners, thro' all time. Each soul shut fast In its own jail of woe, apart, alone, For evermore alone; no thought of kin, Or kindly human glance, or fellowship Of suffering or of sin, made light the load Of solitary pain. Ay, though they walked Together, or were prisoned in one cell With the partners of their wrong, or with strange souls Which the same Furies tore, they knew them not, But suffered still alone; as in that shape Of hell fools build on earth, where hopeless sin Rots slow in solitude, nor sees the face Of men, nor hears the sound of speech, nor feels The touch of human hand, but broods a ghost, Hating the bare blank cell--the other self, Which brought it thither--hating man and God, And all that is or has been. A great fear And pity froze my blood, who seemed to see A half-remembered form. An Eastern King It was who lay in pain. He wore a crown Upon his aching brow, and his white robe Was jewelled with fair gems of price, the signs Of pomp and honour and all luxury, Which might prevent desire. But as I looked There came a hunger in the gloating eyes, A quenchless thirst upon the parching lips, And such unsatisfied strainings in the hands Stretched idly forth on what I could not see, Some fatal food of fancy; that I knew The undying worm of sense, which frets and gnaws The unsatisfied stained soul. Seeing me, he said: "What? And art thou too damned as I? Dost know This thirst as I, and see as I the cool Lymph drawn from thee and mock thy lips; and parch For ever in continual thirst; and mark The fair fruit offered to thy hunger fade Before thy longing eyes? I thought there was No other as I thro' all the weary lengths Of Time the gods have made, who pined so long And found fruition mock him. Long ago, When I was young on earth, 'twas a sweet pain To ride all day in the long chase, and feel Toil and the summer fire my blood and parch My lips, while in my father's halls I knew The cool bath waited, with its marble floor; And juices from the ripe fruits pressed, and chilled With snows from far-off peaks; and troops of slaves; And music and the dance; and fair young forms. And dalliance, and every joy of sense, That haunts the dreams of youth, which strength and ease Corrupt, and vacant hours. Ay, it was sweet For a while to plunge in these, as fair boys plunge Naked in summer streams, all veil of shame Laid by, only the young dear body bathed And sunk in its delight, while the firm earth, The soft green pastures gay with innocent flowers, Or sober harvest fields, show like a dream; And nought is left, but the young life which floats Upon the depths of death, to sink, maybe, And drown in pleasure, or rise at length grown wise And gain the abandoned shore. Ah, but at last The swift desire waxed stronger and more strong, And feeding on itself, grows tyrannous; And the parched soul no longer finds delight In the cool stream of old; nay, this itself, Smitten by the fire of sense as by a flame, Holds not its coolness more; and fevered limbs, Seeking the fresh tides of their youth, may find No more refreshment, but a cauldron fired With the fires of nether hell; and a black rage Usurps the soul, and drives it on to slake Its thirst with crime and blood. Longing Desire! Unsatisfied, sick, impotent Desire! Oh, I have known it ages long. I knew Its pain on earth ere yet my life had grown To its full stature, thro' the weary years Of manhood, nay, in age itself; I knew The quenchless weary thirst, unsatisfied By all the charms of sense, by wealth and power And homage; always craving, never quenched-- The undying curse of the soul! The ministers And agents of my will drave far and wide Through all the land for me, seeking to find Fresh pleasures for me, who had spent my sum Of pleasure, and had power, not even in thought, Nor faculty to enjoy. They tore apart The sacred claustral doors of home for me, Defiled the inviolate hearth for me, laid waste The flower of humble lives, in hope to heal The sickly fancies of the king, till rose A cry of pain from all the land; and I Grew happier for it, since I held the power To quench desire in blood. But even thus The old pain faded not, but swift again Revived; and thro' the sensual dull lengths Of my seraglios I stalked, and marked The glitter of the gems, the precious webs Plundered from every clime by cruel wars That strewed the sands with corpses; lovely eyes That looked no look of love, and fired no more Thoughts of the flesh; rich meats, and fruits, and wines Grown flat and savourless; and loathed them all, And only cared for power; content to shed Rivers of innocent blood, if only thus I might appease my thirst. Until I grew A monster gloating over blood and pain. Ah, weary, weary days, when every sense Was satisfied, and nothing left to slake The parched unhappy soul, except to watch The writhing limbs and mark the slow blood drip, Drop after drop, as the life ebbed with it; In a new thrill of lust, till blood itself Palled on me, and I knew the fiend I was, Yet cared not--I who was, brief years ago, Only a careless boy lapt round with ease, Stretched by the soft and stealing tide of sense Which now grew red; nor ever dreamed at all What Furies lurked beneath it, but had shrunk In indolent horror from the sight of tears And misery, and felt my inmost soul Sicken with the thought of blood. There comes a time When the insatiate brute within the man, Weary with wallowing in the mire, leaps forth Devouring, and the cloven satyr-hoof Grows to the rending claw, and the lewd leer To the horrible fanged snarl, and the soul sinks And leaves the man a devil, all his sin Grown savourless, and yet he longs to sin And longs in vain for ever. Yet, methinks, It was not for the gods to leave me thus. I stinted not their worship, building shrines To all of them; the Goddess of Love I served With hecatombs, letting the fragrant fumes Of incense and the costly steam ascend From victims year by year; nay, my own son Pelops, my best beloved, I gave to them Offering, as he must offer who would gain The great gods' grace, my dearest. I had gained Through long and weary orgies that strange sense Of nothingness and wasted days which blights The exhausted life, bearing upon its front Counterfeit knowledge, when the bitter ash Of Evil, which the sick soul loathes, appears Like the pure fruit of Wisdom. I had grown As wizards seem, who mingle sensual rites And forms impure with murderous spells and dark Enchantments; till the simple people held My very weakness wisdom, and believed That in my blood-stained palace-halls, withdrawn, I kept the inner mysteries of Zeus And knew the secret of all Being; who was A sick and impotent wretch, so sick, so tired, That even bloodshed palled. For my stained soul, Knowing its sin, hastened to purge itself With every rite and charm which the dark lore Of priestcraft offered to it. Spells obscene, The blood of innocent babes, sorceries foul Muttered at midnight--these could occupy My weary days; till all my people shrank To see me, and the mother clasped her child Who heard the monster pass. They would not hear. They listened not--the cold ungrateful gods-- For all my supplications; nay, the more I sought them were they hidden. At the last A dark voice whispered nightly: 'Thou, poor wretch, That art so sick and impotent, thyself The source of all thy misery, the great gods Ask a more precious gift and excellent Than alien victims which thou prizest not And givest without a pang. But shouldst thou take Thy costliest and fairest offering, 'Twere otherwise. The life which thou hast given Thou mayst recall. Go, offer at the shrine Thy best belovèd Pelops, and appease Zeus and the averted gods, and know again The youth and joy of yore.' Night after night, While all the halls were still, and the cold stars Were fading into dawn, I lay awake Distraught with warring thoughts, my throbbing brain Filled with that dreadful voice. I had not shrunk From blood, but this, the strong son of my youth-- How should I dare this thing? And all day long I would steal from sight of him and men, and fight Against the dreadful thought, until the voice Seared all my burning brain, and clamoured, 'Kill! Zeus bids thee, and be happy.' Then I rose At midnight, when the halls were still, and raised The arras, and stole soft to where my son Lay sleeping. For one moment on his face And stalwart limbs I gazed, and marked the rise And fall of his young breast, and the soft plume Which drooped upon his brow, and felt a thrill Of yearning; but the cold voice urging me Burned me like fire. Three times I gazed and turned Irresolute, till last it thundered at me, 'Strike, fool! thou art in hell; strike, fool! and lose The burden of thy chains.' Then with slow step I crept as creeps the tiger on the deer, Raised high my arm, shut close my eyes, and plunged My dagger in his heart. And then, with a flash, The veil fell downward from my life and left Myself to me--the daily sum of sense-- The long continual trouble of desire-- The stain of blood blotting the stain of lust-- The weary foulness of my days, which wrecked My heart and brain, and left me at the last A madman and accursèd; and I knew, Far higher than the sensual slope which held The gods whom erst I worshipped, a white peak Of Purity, and a stern voice pealing doom-- Not the mad voice of old--which pierced so deep Within my life, that with the reeking blade Wet with the heart's blood of my child I smote My guilty heart in twain. Ah! fool, to dream That the long stain of time might fade and merge In one poor chrism of blood. They taught of yore, My priests who flattered me--nor knew at all The greater God I know, who sits afar Beyond those earthly shapes, passionless, pure, And awful as the Dawn--that the gods cared For costly victims, drinking in the steam Of sacrifice when the choice hecatombs Were offered for my wrong. Ah no! there is No recompense in these, nor any charm To cleanse the stain of sin, but the long wear Of suffering, when the soul which seized too much Of pleasure here, grows righteous by the pain That doth redress its ill. For what is Right But equipoise of Nature, alternating The Too Much and Too Little? Not on earth The salutary silent forces work Their final victory, but year on year Passes, and age on age, and leaves the debt Unsatisfied, while the o'erburdened soul Unloads itself in pain. Therefore it is I suffer as I suffered ere swift death Set me not free, no otherwise; and yet There comes a healing purpose in my pain I never knew on earth; nor ever here The once-loved evil grows, only the tale Of penalties grown greater hourly dwarfs The accomplished sum of wrong. And yet desire Pursues me still--sick, impotent desire, Fiercer than that of earth. We are ourselves Our heaven and hell, the joy, the penalty, The yearning, the fruition. Earth is hell Or heaven, and yet not only earth; but still, After the swift soul leaves the gates of death, The pain grows deeper and less mixed, the joy Purer and less alloyed, and we are damned Or blest, as we have lived." He ceased, with a wail Like some complaining wind among the pines Or pent among the fretful ocean caves, A sick, sad sound. Then as I looked, I saw His eyes glare horribly, his dry parched lips Open, his weary hands stretch idly forth As if to clutch the air--infinite pain And mockery of hope. "Seest thou them now?" He said. "I thirst, I parch, I famish, yet They still elude me, fair and tempting fruit And cooling waters. Now they come again. See, they are in my grasp, they are at my lips, Now I shall quench me. Nay, again they fly And mock me. Seest thou them, or am I shut From hope for ever, hungering, thirsting still, A madman and in Hell?" And as I passed In horror, his large eyes and straining hands Froze all my soul with pity. Then it was A woman whom I saw: a dark pale Queen, With passion in her eyes, and fear and pain Holding her steadfast gaze, like one who sees Some dreadful deed of wrong worked out and knows Himself the cause, yet now is powerless To stay the wrong he would. Seeing me gaze In pity on her woe, she turned and spake With a low wailing voice-- "Thou well mayst gaze With horror on me, sir, for I am lost; I have shed the innocent blood, long years ago, Nay, centuries of pain. I have shed the blood Of him I loved, and found for recompense But self-inflicted death and age-long woe, Which purges not my sin. And yet not I It was who did it, but the gods, who took A woman's loveless heart and tortured it With love as with a fire. It was not I Who slew my love, but Fate. Fate 'twas which brought My love and me together, Fate which barred The path of blameless love, yet set Love's flame To burn and smoulder in a hopeless heart, Where no relief might come. The King was old, And I a girl. 'Tis an old tale which runs Thro' the sad ages, and 'twas mine. He had spent His sum of love long since, and I--I knew not A breath of Love as yet. Ah, it is strange To lose the sense of maidenhood, drink deep Of life to the very dregs, and yet not know A flutter of Love's wing. Love takes no thought For pomp, or palace, or respect of men; Nor always in the stately marriage bed, Closed round by silken curtains, laid on down, Nestles a rosy form; but 'mid wild flowers Or desert tents, or in the hind's low cot, Beneath the aspect of the unconscious stars, Dwells all night and is blest. My love, my life! He was the old man's son, a fair white soul-- Not like the others, whom the fire of youth Burns like a flame and hurries unrestrained Thro' riotous days and nights, but virginal And pure as any maid. No wandering glance He deigned for all the maidens young and fair Who sought their Prince's eye. But evermore, Upon the high lawns wandering alone, He dwelt unwed; weaving to Artemis, Fairest of all Olympian maids, a wreath From the unpolluted meads, where never herd Drives his white flock, nor ever scythe has come, But the bee sails upon unfettered wing Over the spring-like lawns, and Purity Waters them with soft dews;[1] and yet he showed Of all his peers most manly--heart and soul A very man, tender and true, and strong And pitiful, and in his limbs and mien Fair as Apollo's self. It was at first In Troezen that I saw him, when he came To greet his sire. Amid the crowd of youths He showed a Prince indeed; yet knew I not Whom 'twas I saw, nor that I held the place Which was his mother's, only from the throng Love, with a barbed dart aiming, pierced my heart Ere yet I knew what ailed me. Every glance Fired me; the youthful grace, the tall straight limbs, The swelling sinewy arms, the large dark eyes Tender yet full of passion, the thick locks Tossed from his brow, the lip and cheek which bore The down of early manhood, seemed to feed My heart with short-lived joy. For when he stood Forth from the throng and knelt before his sire, Then raised his eyes to mine, I felt the curse Of Aphrodité burn me, as it burned My mother before me, and I dared not meet His innocent, frank young eyes. Said I then young? Ay, but not young as mine. For I had known The secret things of life, which age the soul In a moment, writing on its front their mark 'Too early ripe;' and he was innocent, My spouse in fitted years, within whose arms I had defied the world. I turned away Like some white bird that leaves the flock, which sails High in mid air above the haunts of men, Feeling some little dart within her breast, Not death, but like to death, and slowly sinks Down to the earth alone, and bears her hurt Unseen, by herbless sand and bitter pool, And pines until the end. Even from that day I strove to gain his love. Nay, 'twas not I, But the cruel gods who drove me. Day by day We were together; for in days of old Women were free, not pent in gilded jails As afterwards, but free to walk alone, For good or evil, free. I hardly took Thought for my spouse, the King. For I had found My love at last: what matter if it were A guilty love? Yet love is love indeed, Stronger than heaven or hell. Day after day I set myself to tempt him from his proud And innocent way, for I had spurned aside Care for the gods or men--all but my love. What need to tell the tale? Was it a sigh, A blush, a momentary glance, which brought Assurance of my triumph? It is long Since I have lived, I cannot tell; I know Only the penalty of death and hell Which followed on my sin. I knew he loved. It was not wonderful, seeing that we dwelt A boy and girl together. I was fair, And Eros fired my eyes and lent my voice His own soft tremulous tones. But when our souls Trembled upon the verge, and fancy feigned His arms around me as we fled alone To some free land of exile, lo! a scroll: 'Dearest, it may not be; I fear the Gods; We dare not do this wrong. I go from hence And see thy face no more. Farewell! Forget The love we may not own; go, seek for both Forgiveness from the gods.' When I read the words, The cruel words, methought my heart stood still, And when the ebbing life returned I seemed To have lost all thought of Love. Only Revenge Dwelt with me still, the fiercer that I knew My long-prized hope, which came so near success, Snatched from me and for ever. When I rose From my deep swoon, I bade a messenger Go, seek the King for me. He came and sate Beside my couch, and all the doors were closed, And all withdrawn. Then with the liar's art, And hypocrite tears, and feigned reluctancy, And all the subtle wiles a woman draws From the armoury of hate, I did instil The poison to his soul. Cunning devices, Feigned sorrow, mention of his son, regrets, And half confessions--these, with hateful skill Confused together, drove the old man's soul To frenzy; and I watched him, with a sneer, Turn to a dotard thirsting for the life Of his own child. But how to do the deed, Yet shed no blood, nor know the people's hate, Who loved the Prince, I knew not. Till one day The old man, looking out upon the sea, Besought the dread Poseidon to avenge The treachery of his son. Even as we stood Gazing upon the breathless blue, a cloud Rose from the deep, a little fleecy cloud, Which sudden grew and grew, and turned the blue To purple; and a swift wind rose and sang Higher and higher, and the wine-dark sea Grew ruffled, and within the circling bay The tiny ripples, stealing up the sand, Plunged loud with manes of foam, until they swelled To misty surges thundering on the shore. Then at the old man's elbow as I stood, A deep dark thought, sent by the powers of ill, Answering, as now I know, my own black hate And not my poor dupe's anger, fired my soul And bade me speak. 'The god has heard thy prayer,' I whispered; 'See the surge which wakes and swells To fury; well I know what things shall be. It is Poseidon's voice sounds in the storm And sends thy vengeance. Young Hippolytus Loves, as thou knowest, on the yellow sand, Hard by the rippled margin of the wave, To urge his flying steeds. Bid him go forth-- He will obey--and see what recompense The god will send his wrong.' In the old man's eyes A watery gleam of malice played awhile-- I hated him for it--and he bade his son Drive forth his chariot on the sand, and yoke His three young fiery steeds. And still the storm Blew fiercer and more fierce, and the white crests Plunged on the strand, and the high promontories Resounded counter-stricken, and a mist Of foam, blown landward, hid the sounding shore. Then saw I him come forth and bid them yoke His untamed colts. I had not seen his face Since that last day, but, seeing him, I felt The old love spring anew, yet mixed with hate-- A storm of warring passions. Tho' I knew What end should come, yet would I speak no word That might avert it. The old man looked forth; I think he had well-nigh forgotten all The wrong he fancied and the doom he prayed, All but the father's pride in the strong son, Who was so young and bold. I saw a smile Upon the dotard's face, when now the steeds Were harnessed and the chariot, on the sand Along the circling margin of the bay, Flew, swift as light. A sudden gleam of sun Flashed on the silver harness as it went, Burned on the brazen axles of the wheels, And on the golden fillets of the Prince Doubled the gold. Sometimes a larger wave Would dash in mist around him, and in fear The rearing coursers plunged, and then again The strong young arm constrained them, and they flashed To where the wave-worn foreland ends the bay. And then he turned his chariot, a bright speck Now seen, now hidden, but always, tho' the surge Broke round it, safe; emerging like a star From the white clouds of foam. And as I watched, Speaking no word, and breathing scarce a breath, I saw the firm limbs strongly set apart Upon the chariot, and the reins held high, And the proud head bent forward, with long locks Streaming behind, as nearer and more near The swift team rushed--until, with a half joy, It seemed as if my love might yet elude The slow sure anger of the god, dull wrath Swayed by a woman's lie. But on the verge, As I cast my eyes, a vast and purple wall Swelled swiftly towards the land; the lesser waves Sank as it came, and to its toppling crest The spume-flecked waters, from the strand drawn back, Left dry the yellow shore. Onward it came, Hoarse, capped with breaking foam, lurid, immense, Rearing its dreadful height. The chariot sped Nearer and nearer. I could see my love With the light of victory in his eyes, the smile Of daring on his lips: so near he came To where the marble palace-wall confined The narrow strip of beach--his brave young eyes Fixed steadfast on the goal, in the pride of life, Without a thought of death. I strove to cry, But terror choked my breath. Then, like a bull Upon the windy level of the plain Lashing himself to rage, the furious wave, Poising itself a moment, tossing high Its wind-vexed crest, dashed downward on the strand With a stamp, with a rush, with a roar. And when I looked, The shore, the fields, the plain, were one white sea Of churning, seething foam--chariot and steeds Gone, and my darling on the wave's white crest Tossed high, whirled down, beaten, and bruised, and flung, Dying upon the marble. My great love Sprang up redoubled, and cast out my hate And spurned all thought of fear; and down the stair I hurried, and upon the bleeding form I threw myself, and raised his head, and clasped His body to mine, and kissed him on the lips, And in his dying ear confessed my wrong, And saw the horror in his dying eyes And knew that I was damned. And when he breathed His last pure breath, I rose and slowly spake-- Turned to a Fury now by love and pain-- To the old man who knelt, while all the throng Could hear my secret: 'See, thou fool, I am The murderess of thy son, and thou my dupe, Thou and thy gods. See, he was innocent; I murdered him for love. I scorn ye all, Thee and thy gods together, who are deceived By a woman's lying tongue! Oh, doting fool, To hate thy own! And ye, false powers, which punish The innocent, and let the guilty soul Escape unscathed, I hate ye all--I curse, I loathe you!' Then I stooped and kissed my love, And left them in amaze; and up the stair Swept slowly to my chamber, and therein, Hating my life and cursing men and gods, I did myself to death. But even here, I find my punishment. Oh, dreadful doom Of souls like mine! To see their evil done Always before their eyes, the one dread scene Of horror. See, the dark wave on the verge Towers horrible, and he---- Oh, Love, my Love! Safety is near! quick! quicker! urge them on! Thou wilt 'scape it yet!--Nay, nay, it bursts on him! I have shed the innocent blood! Oh, dreadful gaze Within his glazing eyes! Hide them, ye gods! Hide them! I cannot bear them. Quick! a dagger! I will lose their glare in death. Nay, die I cannot; I must endure and live--Death brings not peace To the lost souls in Hell." And her eyes stared, Rounded with horror, and she stooped and gazed So eagerly, and pressed her fevered hands Upon her trembling forehead with such pain As drives the gazer mad. Then as I passed, I marked against the hardly dawning sky A toilsome figure standing, bent and strained, Before a rocky mass, which with great pain And agony of labour it would thrust Up a steep hill. But when upon the crest It poised a moment, then I held my breath With dread, for, lo! the poor feet seemed to clutch The hillside as in fear, and the poor hands With hopeless fingers pressed into the stone In agony, and the limbs stiffened, and a cry Like some strong swimmer's, whom the mightier stream Sweeps downward, and he sees his children's eyes Upon the bank; broke from him; and at last, After long struggles of despair, the limbs Relaxed, and as I closed my fearful eyes, Seeing the inevitable doom--a crash, A horrible thunderous noise, as down the steep The shameless fragment leapt. From crag to crag It bounded ever swifter, striking fire And wrapt in smoke, as to the lowest depths Of the vale it tore, and seemed to take with it The miserable form whose painful gaze I caught, as with the great rock whirled and dashed Downward, and marking every crag with gore And long gray hairs, it plunged, yet living still, To the black hollow; and then a silence came More dreadful than the noise, and a low groan Was all that I could hear. When to the foot Of the dark steep I hurried, half in hope To find the victim dead--not recognizing The undying life of Hell--I seemed to see An aged man, bruised, bleeding, with gray hairs, And eyes from which the cunning leer of greed Was scarcely yet gone out. A crafty voice It was that answered me, the voice of guile Part purified by pain: "There comes not death To those who live in Hell, nor hardly pause Of suffering longer than may serve to make The pain renewed, more piercing. Long ago, I thought that I had cheated Death, and now I seek him; but he comes not, nor know I If ever he will hear me. Whence art thou? Comest thou from earthly air, or whence? What power Has brought thee hither? For I know indeed Thou art not lost as I; for never here I look upon a human face, nor see The ghosts who doubtless here on every side Suffer a common pain, only at times I hear the echo of a shriek far off, Like some faint ghost of woe which fills the pause And interval of suffering; but from whom The voice may come, or whence, I know not, only The air teems with vague pain, which doth distract The ear when for a moment comes surcease Of agony, and the sense of effort spent In vain and fruitless labour, and the pang Of long-deferred defeat, which waits and takes The world-worn heart, and maddens it when all-- Heaven, conscience, happiness, are staked and lost For gains which still elude it. Yet 'twas sweet, A King in early youth, when pleasure is sweet, To live the fair successful years, and know The envy and respect of men. I cared For none of youth's delights: the dance, the song, Allured me not; the smooth soft ways of sense Tempted me not at all. I could despise The follies that I shared not, spending all The long laborious days in toilsome schemes To compass honour and wealth, and, as I grew In name and fame, finding my hoarded gains Transmuted into Power. The seas were white With laden argosies, and all were mine. The sheltering moles defied the wintry storms, And all were mine. The marble aqueducts, The costly bridges, all were mine. Fair roads Wound round and round the hills--my work. The gods Alone I heeded not, nor cared at all For aught but that my eyes and ears might take, Spurning invisible things, nor built I to them Temple or shrine, wrapt up in life, set round With earthly blessings like a god. I rose To such excess of weal and fame and pride, My people held me god-like. I grew drunk With too great power, scoffing at men and gods, Careless of both, but not averse to fling To those too weak themselves, what benefits My larger wisdom spurned. Then suddenly I knew the pain of failure. Summer storms Sucked down my fleets even within sight of port. A grievous blight wasted the harvest-fields, Mocking my hopes of gain. Wars came and drained My store, and I grew needy, knowing now The hell of stronger souls, the loss of power Wherein they exulted once. There comes no pain Deeper than to have known delight of power, And then to lose it all. But I, I would not Sit tame beneath defeat, trimming my sails To wait the breeze of Fortune--fickle breath Which perhaps might breathe no more--but chose instead By rash conceit and bolder enterprise To win her aid again. I had no thought Of selfish gain, only to be and act As a god to those, feeding my sum of pride With acted good. But evermore defeat Dogged me, and evermore my people grew To doubt me, seeing no more the wealth, the force, Which once they worshipped. Then the lust of power Loved, not for sake of others, but itself, Grew on me, and the pride which can dare all, Save failure only, seized me. Evil finds Its ready chance. There were rich argosies Upon the seas: I sank them, ship and crew, In the unbetraying ocean. Wayfarers Crossing the passes with rich merchandise My creatures, hid behind the crags, o'erwhelmed With rocks hurled downward. Yet I spent my gains For the public weal, not otherwise; and they, The careless people, took the piteous spoils Which cost the lives of many, and a man's soul, And blessed the giver. Empty venal blessings, Which sting more deep than curses! For awhile I was content with this, but at the last A great contempt and hatred of them took me, The base, vile churls! Why should I stain my soul For such as those--dogs that would fawn and lick The hand that fed them, but, if food should fail, Would turn and rend me? I would none of them; I would grow rich and happy, being indeed Godlike in brain to such. So with all craft, And guile, and violence I enriched me, loading My treasuries with gold. My deep-laid schemes Of gain engrossed the long laborious days, Stretched far into the night. Enjoy, I might not, Seeing it was all to do, and life so brief That ere a man might gain the goal he would, Lo! Age, and with it Death, and so an end! For all the tales of the indignant gods, What were they but the priests'? I had myself Broken all oaths; long time deceived and ruined With every phase of fraud the pious fools Whom oath-sworn Justice bound; battened on blood And what was I the worse? How should the gods Bear rule if I were happy? Death alone Was certain. Therefore must I haste to heap Treasure sufficient for my need, and then Enjoy the gathered good. But gradually There came--not great disasters which might crush All hope, but petty checks which did decrease My store, and left my labour vain, and me Unwilling to enjoy; and gradually I felt the chill approach of age, which stole Higher and higher on me, till the life, As in a paralytic, left my limbs And heart, and mounted upwards to my brain, Its last resort, and rested there awhile Ere it should spread its wings. But even thus, Tho' powerless to enjoy, the insatiate greed And thirst of power sustained me, and supplied Life's spark with some scant fuel, till it seemed, Year after year, as if I could not die, Holding so fast to life. I grew so old That all the comrades of my youth, my prime, My age, were gone, and I was left alone With those who knew me not, bereft of all Except my master passion--an old man Forlorn, forgotten of the gods and Death. So all the people, seeing me grow old And prosperous, held me wise, and spread abroad Strange fables, growing day by day more strange-- How I deceived the very gods. They thought That I was blest, remembering not the wear Of anxious thought, the growing sum of pain, The failing ear and eye, the slower limbs, Whose briefer name is Age: and yet I trow I was not all unhappy, though I knew It was too late to enjoy, and though my store Increased not as my greed--nay, even sunk down A little, year by year. Till, last of all, When now my time was come and I had grown A little tired of living, a trivial hurt Laid me upon my bed; and as I mused On my long life and all its villanies, The wickedness I did, the blood I shed, The guile, the frauds of years--they came with news, One now, and now another; how my schemes Were crushed, my enterprises lost, my toil And labour all in vain. Day after day They brought these tidings, while I longed to rise And stay the tide of ill, and raved to know I could not. At the last the added sum Of evil, like yon great rock poised awhile Uncertain, gathered into one, o'erwhelmed My feeble strength, and left me ruined and lost, And showed me all I was, and all the depth And folly of my sin, and racked my brain, And sank me in despair and misery, And broke my heart and slew me. Therefore 'tis I spend the long, long centuries which have come Between me and my sin, in such dread tasks As that thou sawest. In the soul I sinned: In body and soul I suffer. What I bade My minions do to others, that of woe I bear myself; and in the pause of ill, As now, I know again the bitter pang Of failure, which of old pierced thro' my soul And left me to despair. The pain of mind Is fiercer far than any bodily ill, And both are mine--the pang of torture-pain Always recurring; and, far worse, the pang Of consciousness of black sins sinned in vain-- The doom of constant failure. Will, fierce Will! Thou parent of unrest and toil and woe, Measureless effort! growing day by day To force strong souls along the giddy steep That slopes to the pit of Hell, where effort serves Only to speed destruction! Yet I know Thou art not, as some hold, the primal curse Which doth condemn us; since thou bearest in thee No power to satisfy thyself; but rather, The spring of act, whereby in earth and heaven Both men and gods do breathe and live and are, Since Life is Act and not to Do is Death-- I do not blame thee: but to work in vain Is bitterest penalty: to find at last The soul all fouled with sin and stained with blood In vain; ah, this is hell indeed--the hell Of lost and striving souls!" Then as I passed, The halting figure bent itself again To the old task, and up the rugged steep Thrust the great rock with groanings. Horror chained My parting footsteps, like a nightmare dream Which holds us that we flee not, with wide eyes That loathe to see, yet cannot choose but gaze Till all be done. Slowly, with dreadful toil And struggle and strain, and bleeding hands and knees, And more than mortal strength, against the hill He pressed, the wretched one! till with long pain He trembled on the summit, a gaunt form, With that great rock above him, poised and strained, Now gaining, now receding, now in act To win the summit, now borne down again, And then the inevitable crash--the mass Leaping from crag to crag. But ere it ceased In dreadful silence, and the low groan came, My limbs were loosed with one convulsive bound; I hid my face within my hands, and fled, Surfeit with horror. Then it was again A woman whom I saw, pitiless, stern, Bearing the brand of blood--a lithe dark form, And cruel eyes which glared beneath the gems That argued her a Queen, and on her side An ancient stain of gore, which did befoul Her royal robe. A murderess in thought And dreadful act, who took within the toils Her kingly Lord, and slew him of old time After burnt Troy. I had no time to speak When she shrieked thus: "It doth repent me not I would 'twere yet to do, and I would do it Again a thousand times, if the shed blood Might for one hour restore me to the kisses Of my Ægisthus. Oh, he was divine, My hero, with the godlike locks and eyes Of Eros' self! What boots it that they prate Of wifely duty, love of spouse or child, Honour or pity, when the swift fire takes A woman's heart, and burns it out, and leaps With fierce forked tongue around it, till it lies In ashes, a dead heart, nor aught remains Of old affections, naught but the new flame Which is unquenched desire? It did not come, My blessing, all at once, but the slow fruit Of solitude and midnight loneliness, And weary waiting for the tardy news Of taken Troy. Long years I sate alone, Widowed, within my palace, while my Lord Was over seas, waging the accursèd war, First of the file of Kings. Year after year Came false report, or harder, no report Of the great fleet. The summers waxed and waned, The wintry surges smote the sounding shores, And yet there came no end of it. They brought Now hopeless failure, now great victories; And all alike were false, all but delay And hope deferred, which cometh not, but breaks The heart which suffering wrings not. So I bore Long time the solitary years, and sought To solace the dull days with motherly cares For those my Lord had left me. My firstborn, Iphigeneia, sailed at first with him Upon that fatal voyage, but the young Orestes and Electra stayed with me-- Not dear as she was, for the firstborn takes The mother's heart, and, with the milk it draws From the mother's virgin breast, drains all the love It bore, ay, even tho' the sire be dear; Much more, then, when he is a King indeed, Mighty in war and council, but too high To stoop to a woman's love. But she was gone, Nor heard I tidings of her, knowing not If yet she walked the earth, nor if she bare The load of children, even as I had borne Her in my opening girlhood, when I leapt From child to Queen, but never loved the King. Thus the slow years rolled onward, till at last There came a dreadful rumour--'She is dead, Thy daughter, years ago. The cruel priests Clamoured for blood; the stern cold Kings stood round Without a tear, and he, her sire, with them, To see a virgin bleed. They cut with knives The taper girlish throat; they watched the blood Drip slowly on the sand, and the young life Meek as a lamb come to the sacrifice To appease the angry gods.' And he, the King, Her father, stood by too, and saw them do it, The wickedness, breathing no word of wrath, Till all was done! The cowards! the dull cowards! I would some black storm, bursting suddenly, Had whelmed them and their fleets, ere yet they dared To waste an innocent life! I had gone mad, I know it, but for him, my love, my dear, My fair sweet love. He came to comfort me With words of friendship, holding that my Lord Was bound, perhaps, to let her die--'The gods Were ofttimes hard to appease--or was it indeed The priests who asked it? Were there any gods? Or only phantoms, creatures of the brain, Born of the fears of men, the greed of priests, Useful to govern women? Had he been Lord of the fleet, not all the soothsayers Who ever frighted cowards should have brought His soul to such black depths.' I hearkening to him As 'twere my own thought grown articulate, Found my grief turn to hate, and hate to love-- Hate of my Lord, love of the voice which spoke Such dear and comfortable words. And thus, Love to a storm of passion growing, swept My wounded soul and dried my tears, as dries The hot sirocco all the bitter pools Of salt among the sand. I never knew True love before; I was a child, no more, When the King cast his eyes on me. What is it To have borne the weight of offspring 'neath the zone, If Love be not their sire; or live long years Of commerce, not of love? Better a day Of Passion than the long unlovely years Of wifely duty, when Love cometh not To wake the barren days! And yet at first I hesitated long, nor would embrace The blessing that was mine. We are hedged round, We women, by such close-drawn ordinances, Set round us by our tyrants, that we fear To overstep a hand's breadth the dull bounds Of custom; but at last Love, waking in me, Burst all my chains asunder, and I lived For naught but Love. My son, the young Orestes, I sent far off; my girl Electra only Remained, too young to doubt me, and I knew At last what 'twas to live. So the swift years Fleeted and found me happy, till the dark Ill-omened day when Rumour, thousand-tongued, Whispered of taken Troy; and from my dream Of happiness, sudden I woke, and knew The coming retribution. We had grown Too loving for concealment, and our tale Of mutual love was bruited far and wide Through Argos. All the gossips bruited it, And were all tongue to tell it to the King When he should come. And should the cold proud Lord I never loved, the murderer of my girl, Come 'twixt my love and me? A swift resolve Flashed through me pondering on it: Love for Love And Blood for Blood--the simple golden rule Taught by the elder gods. When I had taken My fixed resolve, I grew impatient for it, Counting the laggard days. Oh, it was sweet To simulate the yearning of a wife Long parted from her Lord, and mock the fools Who dogged each look and word, and but for fear Had torn me from my throne--the pies, the jays, The impotent chatterers, who thought by words To stay me in the act! 'Twas sweet to mock them And read distrust within their eyes, when I, Knowing my purpose, bade them quick prepare All fitting honours for the King, and knew They dared not disobey--oh, 'twas enough To wing the slow-paced hours. But when at last I saw his sails upon the verge, and then The sea-worn ship, and marked his face grown old, The body a little bent, which was so straight, The thin gray hairs which were the raven locks Of manhood when he went, I felt a moment I could not do the deed. But when I saw The beautiful sad woman come with him, The future in her eyes, and her sad voice Proclaimed the tale of doom, two thoughts at once Assailed me, bidding me despatch with a blow Him and his mistress, making sure the will Of fate, and my revenge. Oh, it was strange To see all happen as we planned; as 'twere Some drama oft rehearsed, wherein each step, Each word, is so prepared, the poorest player Knows his turn come to do--the solemn landing-- The ride to the palace gate--the courtesies Of welcome--the mute crowds without--the bath Prepared within--the precious circling folds Of tissue stretched around him, shutting out The gaze, and folding helpless like a net The mighty limbs--the battle-axe laid down Against the wall, and I, his wife and Queen, Alone with him, waiting and watching still, Till the woman shrieked without. Then with swift step I seized the axe, and struck him as he lay Helpless, once, twice, and thrice--once for my girl, Once for my love, once for the woman, and all For Fate and my Revenge! He gave a groan, Once only, as I thought he might; and then No sound but the quick gurgling of the blood, As it flowed from him in streams, and turned the pure And limpid water of the bath to red-- I had not looked for that--it flowed and flowed, And seemed to madden me to look on it, Until my love with hands bloody as mine, But with the woman's blood, rushed in, and eyes Rounded with horror; and we turned to go, And left the dead alone. But happiness Still mocked me, and a doubt unknown before Came on me, and amid the silken shows And luxury of power I seemed to see Another answer to my riddle of life Than that I gave myself, and it was 'murder;' And in my people's sullen mien and eyes, 'Murder;' and in the mirror, when I looked, 'Murder' glared out, and terror lest my son Returning, grown to manhood, should avenge His father's blood. For somehow, as 'twould seem, The gods, if gods there be, or the stern Fate Which doth direct our little lives, do filch Our happiness--though bright with Love's own ray, There comes a cloud which veils it. Yet, indeed, My days were happy. I repent me not; I would wade through seas of blood to know again Those fierce delights once more. But my young girl Electra, grown to woman, turned from me Her modest maiden eyes, nor loved to set Her kiss upon my cheek, but, all distraught With secret care, hid her from all the pomps And revelries which did befit her youth, Walking alone; and often at the tomb Of her lost sire they found her, pouring out Libations to the dead. And evermore I did bethink me of my son Orestes, Who now should be a man; and yearned sometimes To see his face, yet feared lest from his eyes His father's soul should smite me. So I lived Happy and yet unquiet--a stern voice Speaking of doom, which long time softer notes Of careless weal, the music that doth spring From the fair harmonies of life and love, Would drown in their own concord. This at times Nay, day by day, stronger and dreadfuller, With dominant accent, marred the sounds of joy By one prevailing discord. So at length I came to lose the Present in the dread Of what might come; the penalty that waits Upon successful sin; who, having sinned, Had missed my sin's reward. Until one day I, looking from my palace casement, saw A humble suppliant, clad in pilgrim garb, Approach the marble stair. A sudden throb Thrilled thro' me, and the mother's heart went forth Thro' all disguise of garb and rank and years, Knowing my son. How fair he was, how tall And vigorous, my boy! What strong straight limbs And noble port! How beautiful the shade Of manhood on his lip! I longed to burst From my chamber down, yearning to throw myself Upon his neck within the palace court, Before the guards--spurning my queenly rank, All but my motherhood. And then a chill Of doubt o'erspread me, knowing what a gulf Fate set between our lives, impassable As that great gulf which yawns 'twixt life and death And 'twixt this Hell and Heaven. I shrank back, And turned to think a moment, half in fear, And half in pain; dividing the swift mind, Yet all in love. Then came a cry, a groan, From the inner court, the clash of swords, the fall Of a body on the pavement; and one cried, 'The King is dead, slain by the young Orestes, Who cometh hither.' With the word, the door Flew open, and my son stood straight before me, His drawn sword dripping blood. Oh, he was fair And terrible to see, when from his limbs, The suppliant's mantle fallen, left the mail And arms of a young warrior. Love and Hate, Which are the offspring of a common sire, Strove for the mastery, till within his eyes I saw his father's ghost glare unappeased From out Love's casements. Then I knew my fate And his--mine to be slain by my son's hand, And his to slay me, since the Furies drave Our lives to one destruction; and I took His point within my breast. But I praise not The selfish, careless gods who wrecked our lives, Making the King the murderer of his girl, And me his murderess; making my son The murderer of his mother and her love-- A mystery of blood!--I curse them all, The careless Forces, sitting far withdrawn Upon the heights of Space, taking men's lives For playthings, and deriding as in sport Our happiness and woe--I curse them all. We have a right to joy; we have a right, I say, as they have. Let them stand confessed The puppets that they are--too weak to give The good they feign to love, since Fate, too strong For them as us, beyond their painted sky, Sits and derides them, too. I curse Fate too, The deaf blind Fury, taking human souls And crushing them, as a dull fretful child Crushes its toys and knows not with what skill Those feeble forms are feigned. I curse, I loathe, I spit on them. It doth repent me not. I would 'twere yet to do. I have lived my life. I have loved. See, there he lies within the bath, And thus I smite him! thus! Didst hear him groan? Oh, vengeance, thou art sweet! What, living still? Ah me! we cannot die! Come, torture me, Ye Furies--for I love not soothing words-- As once ye did my son. Ye miserable Blind ministers of Hell, I do defy you; Not all your torments can undo the Past Of Passion and of Love!" Even as she spake There came a viewless trouble in the air, Which took her, and a sweep of wings unseen, And terrible sounds, which swooped on her and hushed Her voice, and seemed to occupy her soul With horror and despair; and as she passed I marked her agonized eyes. But as I went, Full many a dreadful shape of lonely pain I saw. What need to tell them? We are filled Who live to-day with a more present sense Of the great love of God, than those of old Who, groping in the dawn of Knowledge, saw Only dark shadows of the Unknown; or he, First-born of modern singers, who swept deep His awful lyre, and woke the voice of song, Dumb for long centuries of pain. We dread To dwell on those long agonies its sin Brings on the offending soul; who hold a creed Of deeper Pity, knowing what chains of ill Bind round our petty lives. Each phase of woe, Suffering, and torture which the gloomy thought Of bigots feigns for others--all were there. One there was stretched upon a rolling wheel, Which was the barren round of sense, that still Returned upon itself and broke the limbs Bound to it day and night. Others I saw Doomed, with unceasing toil, to fill the urns Whose precious waters sank ere they could slake Their burning thirst. Another shapeless soul, Full of revolts and hates and tyrannous force, The weight of earth, which was its earth-born taint, Pressed groaning down, while with fierce beak and claw The vulture of remorse, piercing his breast, Preyed on his heart. For others, overhead, Great crags of rock impending seemed to fall, But fell not nor brought peace. I felt my soul Blunted with horrors, yearning to escape To where, upon the limits of the wood, Some scanty twilight grew. But ere I passed From those grim shades a deep voice sounded near, A voice without a form. "There is an end Of all things that thou seest! There is an end Of Wrong and Death and Hell! When the long wear Of Time and Suffering has effaced the stain Ingrown upon the soul, and the cleansed spirit, Long ages floating on the wandering winds Or rolling deeps of Space, renews itself And doth regain its dwelling, and, once more Blent with the general order, floats anew Upon the stream of Things,[2] and comes at length, After new deaths, to that dim waiting-place Thou next shalt see, and with the justified White souls awaits the End; or, snatched at once, If Fate so will, to the pure sphere itself, Lives and is blest, and works the Eternal Work Whose name and end is Love! There is an end Of Wrong and Death and Hell!" Even as I heard, I passed from out the shadow of Death and Pain, Crying, "There is an end!" END OF BOOK I. BOOK II. HADES. Then from those dark And dreadful precincts passing, ghostly fields And voiceless took me. A faint twilight veiled The leafless, shadowy trees and herbless plains. There stirred no breath of air to wake to life The slumbers of the world. The sky above Was one gray, changeless cloud. There looked no eye Of Life from the veiled heavens; but Sleep and Death Were round me everywhere. And yet no fear Nor horror took me here, where was no pain Nor dread, save that strange tremor which assails One who in life's hot noontide looks on death And knows he too shall die. The ghosts which rose From every darkling copse showed thin and pale-- Thinner and paler far than those I left In agony; even as Pity seems to wear A thinner form than Fear. Not caged alone Like those the avenging Furies purged were these, Nor that dim land as those black cavernous depths Where no hope comes. Fair souls were they and white Whom there I saw, waiting as we shall wait, The Beatific End, but thin and pale As the young faith which made them; touched a little By the sad memories of the earth; made glad A little by past joys: no more; and wrapt In musing on the brief play played by them Upon the lively earth, yet ignorant Of the long lapse of years, and what had been Since they too breathed Life's air, or if they knew, Keeping some echo only; but their pain Was fainter than their joy, and a great hope Like ours possessed them dimly. First I saw A youth who pensive leaned against the trunk Of a dark cypress, and an idle flute Hung at his side. A sorrowful sad soul, Such as sometimes he knows, who meets the gaze, Mute, uncomplaining yet most pitiful, Of one whom nature, by some secret spite, Has maimed and left imperfect; or the pain Which fills a poet's eyes. Beneath his robe I seemed to see the scar of cruel stripes, Too hastily concealed. Yet was he not Wholly unhappy, but from out the core Of suffering flowed a secret spring of joy, Which mocked the droughts of Fate, and left him glad And glorying in his sorrow. As I gazed He raised his silent flute, and, half ashamed, Blew a soft note; and as I stayed awhile I heard him thus discourse-- "The flute is sweet To gods and men, but sweeter far the lyre And voice of a true singer. Shall I fear To tell of that great trial, when I strove And Phoebus conquered? Nay, no shame it is To bow to an immortal melody; But glory. Once among the Phrygian hills I lay a-musing,--while the silly sheep Wandered among the thyme--upon the bank Of a clear mountain stream, beneath the pines, Safe hidden from the noon. A dreamy haze Played on the uplands, but the hills were clear In sunlight, and no cloud was on the sky. It was the time when a deep silence comes Upon the summer earth, and all the birds Have ceased from singing, and the world is still As midnight, and if any live thing move-- Some fur-clad creature, or cool gliding snake-- Within the pipy overgrowth of weeds, The ear can catch the rustle, and the trees And earth and air are listening. As I lay, Faintly, as in a dream, I seemed to hear A tender music, like the Æolian chords, Sound low within the woodland, whence the stream, Flowed full, yet silent. Long, with ear to ground, I hearkened; and the sweet strain, fuller grown, Rounder and clearer came, and danced along In mirthful measure now, and now grown grave In dying falls, and sweeter and more clear, Tripping at nuptials and high revelry, Wailing at burials, rapt in soaring thoughts, Chanting strange sea-tales full of mystery, Touching all chords of being, and life and death, Now rose, now sank, and always was divine, So strange the music came. Till, as I lay Enraptured, swift a sudden discord rang, And all the sound grew still. A sudden flash, As from a sunlit jewel, fired the wood. A noise of water smitten, and on the hills A fair white fleece of cloud, which swiftly climbed Into the farthest heaven. Then, as I mused, Knowing a parting goddess, straight I saw A sudden splendour float upon the stream, And knew it for this jewelled flute, which paused Before me on an eddy. It I snatched Eager, and to my ardent lips I bore The wonder, and behold, with the first breath-- The first warm human breath, the silent strains. The half-drowned notes which late the goddess blew, Revived, and sounded clearer, sweeter far Than mortal skill could make. So with delight I left my flocks to wander o'er the wastes Untended, and the wolves and eagles seized The tender lambs, but I was for my art-- Nought else; and though the high-pitched notes divine Grew faint, yet something lingered, and at last So sweet a note I sounded of my skill, That all the Phrygian highlands, all the white Hill villages, were fain to hear the strain, Which the mad shepherd made. So, overbold, And rapt in my new art, at last I dared To challenge Phoebus' self. 'Twas a fair day When sudden, on the mountain side, I saw A train of fleecy clouds in a white band Descending. Down the gleaming pinnacles And difficult crags they floated, and the arch, Drawn with its thousand rays against the sun, Hung like a glory o'er them. Midst the pines They clothed themselves with form, and straight I knew The immortals. Young Apollo, with his lyre, Kissed by the sun, and all the Muses clad In robes of gleaming white; then a great fear, Yet mixed with joy, assailed me, for I knew Myself a mortal equalled with the gods. Ah me! how fair they were! how fair and dread In face and form, they showed, when now they came Upon the thymy slope, and the young god Lay with his choir around him, beautiful And bold as Youth and Dawn! There was no cloud Upon the sky, nor any sound at all When I began my strain. No coward fear Of what might come restrained me; but an awe Of those immortal eyes and ears divine Looking and listening. All the earth seemed full Of ears for me alone--the woods, the fields, The hills, the skies were listening. Scarce a sound My flute might make; such subtle harmonies The silence seemed to weave round me and flout The half unuttered thought. Till last I blew, As now, a hesitating note, and lo! The breath divine, lingering on mortal lips, Hurried my soul along to such fair rhymes, Sweeter than wont, that swift I knew my life Rise up within me, and expand, and all The human, which so nearly is divine, Was glorified, and on the Muses' lips, And in their lovely eyes, I saw a fair Approval, and my soul in me was glad. For all the strains I blew were strains of love-- Love striving, love triumphant, love that lies Within belovèd arms, and wreathes his locks With flowers, and lets the world go by and sings Unheeding; and I saw a kindly gleam Within the Muses' eyes, who were indeed, Women, though god-like. But upon the face Of the young Sun-god only haughty scorn Sate and he swiftly struck his golden lyre, And played the Song of Life; and lo, I knew My strain, how earthy! Oh, to hear the young Apollo playing! and the hidden cells And chambers of the universe displayed Before the charmèd sound! I seemed to float In some enchanted cave, where the wave dips In from the sunlit sea, and floods its depths With reflex hues of heaven. My soul was rapt By that I heard, and dared to wish no more For victory; and yet because the sound Of music that is born of human breath Comes straighter from the soul than any strain The hand alone can make; therefore I knew, With a mixed thrill of pity and delight, The nine immortal Sisters hardly touched By this fine strain of music, as by mine, And when the high lay trembled to its close, Still doubting. Then upon the Sun-god's face There passed a cold proud smile. He swept his lyre Once more, then laid it down, and with clear voice, The voice of godhead, sang. Oh, ecstasy, Oh happiness of him who once has heard Apollo singing! For his ears the sound Of grosser music dies, and all the earth Is full of subtle undertones, which change The listener and transform him. As he sang-- Of what I know not, but the music touched Each chord of being--I felt my secret life Stand open to it, as the parched earth yawns To drink the summer rain; and at the call Of those refreshing waters, all my thought Stir from its dark and secret depths, and burst Into sweet, odorous flowers, and from their wells Deep call to deep, and all the mystery Of all that is, laid open. As he sang, I saw the Nine, with lovely pitying eyes, Sign 'He has conquered.' Yet I felt no pang Of fear, only deep joy that I had heard Such music while I lived, even though it brought Torture and death. For what were it to lie Sleek, crowned with roses, drinking vulgar praise, And surfeited with offerings, the dull gift Of ignorant hands--all which I might have known-- To this diviner failure? Godlike 'tis To climb upon the icy ledge, and fall Where other footsteps dare not. So I knew My fate, and it was near. For to a pine They bound me willing, and with cruel stripes Tore me, and took my life. But from my blood Was born the stream of song, and on its flow My poor flute, to the cool swift river borne, Floated, and thence adown a lordlier tide Into the deep, wide sea. I do not blame Phoebus, or Nature which has set this bar Betwixt success and failure, for I know How far high failure overleaps the bound Of low successes. Only suffering draws The inner heart of song and can elicit The perfumes of the soul. 'Twere not enough To fail, for that were happiness to him Who ever upward looks with reverent eye And seeks but to admire. So, since the race Of bards soars highest; as who seek to show Our lives as in a glass; therefore it comes That suffering weds with song, from him of old, Who solaced his blank darkness with his verse; Through all the story of neglect and scorn, Necessity, sheer hunger, early death, Which smite the singer still. Not only those Who keep clear accents of the voice divine Are honourable--they are happy, indeed, Whate'er the world has held--but those who hear Some fair faint echoes, though the crowd be deaf, And see the white gods' garments on the hills, Which the crowd sees not, though they may not find Fit music for their thought; they too are blest, Not pitiable. Not from arrogant pride Nor over-boldness fail they who have striven To tell what they have heard, with voice too weak For such high message. More it is than ease, Palace and pomp, honours and luxuries, To have seen white Presences upon the hills, To have heard the voices of the Eternal Gods." So spake he, and I seemed to look on him, Whose sad young eyes grow on us from the page Of his own verse: who did himself to death: Or whom the dullard slew: or whom the sea Rapt from us: and I passed without a word, Slow, grave, with many musings. Then I came On one a maiden, meek with folded hands, Seated against a rugged face of cliff, In silent thought. Anon she raised her arms, Her gleaming arms, above her on the rock, With hands which clasped each other, till she showed As in a statue, and her white robe fell Down from her maiden shoulders, and I knew The fair form as it seemed chained to the stone By some invisible gyves, and named her name: And then she raised her frightened eyes to mine As one who, long expecting some great fear, Scarce sees deliverance come. But when she saw Only a kindly glance, a softer look Came in them, and she answered to my thought With a sweet voice and low. "I did but muse Upon the painful past, long dead and done, Forgetting I was saved. The angry clouds Burst always on the low flat plains, and swept The harvest to the ocean; all the land Was wasted. A great serpent from the deep, Lifting his horrible head above their homes, Devoured the children. And the people prayed In vain to careless gods. On that dear land, Which now was turned into a sullen sea, Gazing in safety from the stately towers Of my sire's palace, I, a princess, saw, Lapt in soft luxury, within my bower The wreck of humble homes come whirling by, The drowning, bleating flocks, the bellowing herds, The grain scarce husbanded by toiling hands Upon the sunlit plain, rush to the sea, With floating corpses. On the rain-swept hills The remnant of the people huddled close, Homeless and starving. All my being was filled With pity for them, and I joyed to give What food and shelter and compassionate hands Of woman might. I took the little ones And clasped them shivering to the virgin breast Which knew no other touch but theirs, and gave Raiment and food. My sire, not stern to me, Smiled on me as he saw. My gentle mother, Who loved me with a closer love than binds A mother to her son; and sunned herself In my fresh beauty, seeing in my young eyes Her own fair vanished youth; doted on me, And fain had kept my eyes from the sad sights That pained them. But my heart was sad in me, Seeing the ineffable miseries of life, And that mysterious anger of the gods, And helpless to allay them. All in vain Were prayer and supplication, all in vain The costly victims steamed. The vengeful clouds Hid the fierce sky, and still the ruin came. And wallowing his grim length within the flood, Over the ravaged fields and homeless homes, The fell sea-monster raged, sating his jaws With blood and rapine. Then to the dread shrine Of Ammon went the priests, and reverend chiefs Of all the nation. White robed, at their head, Went slow my royal sire. The oracle Spoke clear, not as ofttimes in words obscure, Ambiguous. And as we stood to meet The suppliants--she who bare me, with her head Upon my neck--we cheerful and with song Welcomed their swift return; auguring well From such a quick-sped mission. But my sire Hid his face from me, and the crowd of priests And nobles looked not at us. And no word Was spoken till at last one drew a scroll And gave it to the queen, who straightway swooned, Having read it, on my breast, and then I saw, I the young girl whose soft life scarcely knew Shadow of sorrow, I whose heart was full Of pity for the rest, what doom was mine. I think I hardly knew in that dread hour The fear that came anon; I was transformed Into a champion of my race, made strong With a new courage, glorying to meet, In all the ecstasy of sacrifice, Death face to face. Some god, I know not who, O'erspread me, and despite my mother's tears And my stern father's grief, I met my fate Unshrinking. When the moon rose clear from cloud Once more again over the midnight sea, And that vast watery plain, where were before Hundreds of happy homes, and well-tilled fields, And purple vineyards; from my father's towers The white procession went along the paths, The high cliff paths, which well I loved of old, Among the myrtles. Priests with censers went And offerings, robed in white, and round their brows The sacred fillet. With his nobles walked My sire with breaking heart. My mother clung To me the victim, and the young girls went With wailing and with tears. A solemn strain The soft flutes sounded, as we went by night To a wild headland, rock-based in the sea. There on a sea-worn rock, upon the verge, To some rude stanchions, high above my head, They bound me. Out at sea, a black reef rose, Washed by the constant surge, wherein a cave Sheltered deep down the monster. The sad queen Would scarcely leave me, though the priests shrunk back In terror. Last, torn from my endless kiss, Swooning they bore her upwards. All my robe Fell from my lifted arms, and left displayed The virgin treasure of my breasts; and then The white procession through the moonlight streamed Upwards, and soon their soft flutes sounded low Upon the high lawns, leaving me alone. There stood I in the moonlight, left alone Against the sea-worn rock. Hardly I knew, Seeing only the bright moon and summer sea, Which gently heaved and surged, and kissed the ledge With smooth warm tides, what fate was mine. I seemed, Soothed by the quiet, to be resting still Within my maiden chamber, and to watch The moonlight thro' my lattice. Then again Fear came, and then the pride of sacrifice Filled me, as on the high cliff lawns I heard The wailing cries, the chanted liturgies, And knew me bound forsaken to the rock, And saw the monster-haunted depths of sea. So all night long upon the sandy shores I heard the hollow murmur of the wave, And all night long the hidden sea caves made A ghostly echo; and the sea birds mewed Around me; once I heard a mocking laugh, As of some scornful Nereid; once the waters Broke louder on the scarpèd reefs, and ebbed As if the monster coming; but again He came not, and the dead moon sank, and still Only upon the cliffs the wails, the chants, And I forsaken on my sea-worn rock, And lo, the monster-haunted depths of sea. Till at the dead dark hour before the dawn, When sick men die, and scarcely fear itself Bore up my weary eyelids, a great surge Burst on the rock, and slowly, as it seemed, The sea sucked downward to its depths, laid bare The hidden reefs, and then before my eyes-- Oh, horrible! a huge and loathsome snake Lifted his dreadful crest and scaly side Above the wave, in bulk and length so large, Coil after hideous coil, that scarce the eye Could measure its full horror; the great jaws Dropped as with gore; the large and furious eyes Were fired with blood and lust. Nearer he came, And slowly, with a devilish glare, more near, Till his hot foetor choked me, and his tongue, Forked horribly within his poisonous jaws, Played lightning-like around me. For awhile I swooned, and when I knew my life again, Death's bitterness was past. Then with a bound Leaped up the broad red sun above the sea, And lit the horrid fulgour of his scales, And struck upon the rock; and as I turned My head in the last agony of death, I knew a brilliant sunbeam swiftly leaping Downward from crag to crag, and felt new hope Where all was hopeless. On the hills a shout Of joy, and on the rocks the ring of mail; And while the hungry serpent's gloating eyes Were fixed on me, a knight in casque of gold And blazing shield, who with his flashing blade Fell on the monster. Long the conflict raged, Till all the rocks were red with blood and slime, And yet my champion from those horrible jaws And dreadful coils was scatheless. Zeus his sire Protected, and the awful shield he bore Withered the monster's life and left him cold, Dragging his helpless length and grovelling crest: And o'er his glaring eyes the films of death Crept, and his writhing flank and hiss of hate The great deep swallowed down, and blood and spume Rose on the waves; and a strange wailing cry Resounded o'er the waters, and the sea Bellowed within its hollow-sounding caves. Then knew I, I was saved, and with me all The people. From my wrists he loosed the gyves, My hero; and within his godlike arms Bore me by slippery rock and difficult path, To where my mother prayed. There was no need To ask my love. Without a spoken word Love lit his fires within me. My young heart Went forth, Love calling, and I gave him all. Dost thou then wonder that the memory Of this supreme brief moment lingers still, While all the happy uneventful years Of wedded life, and all the fair young growth Of offspring, and the tranquil later joys, Nay, even the fierce eventful fight which raged When we were wedded, fade and are deceased, Lost in the irrecoverable past? Nay, 'tis not strange. Always the memory Of overwhelming perils or great joys, Avoided or enjoyed, writes its own trace With such deep characters upon our lives, That all the rest are blotted. In this place, Where is not action, thought, or count of time, It is not weary as it were on earth, To dwell on these old memories. Time is born Of dawns and sunsets, days that wax and wane And stamp themselves upon the yielding face Of fleeting human life; but here there is Morning nor evening, act nor suffering, But only one unchanging Present holds Our being suspended. One blest day indeed, Or centuries ago or yesterday, There came among us one who was Divine, Not as our gods, joyous and breathing strength And careless life, but crowned with a new crown Of suffering, and a great light came with him, And with him he brought Time and a new sense Of dim, long-vanished years; and since he passed I seem to see new meaning in my fate, And all the deeds I tell of. Evermore The young life comes, bound to the cruel rocks Alone. Before it the unfathomed sea Smiles, filled with monstrous growths that wait to take Its innocence. Far off the voice and hand Of love kneel by in agony, and entreat The seeming careless gods. Still when the deep Is smoothest, lo, the deadly fangs and coils Lurk near, to smite with death. And o'er the crags Of duty, like a sudden sunbeam, springs Some golden soul half mortal, half divine, Heaven-sent, and breaks the chain; and evermore For sacrifice they die, through sacrifice They live, and are for others, and no grief Which smites the humblest but reverberates Thro' all the close-set files of life, and takes The princely soul that from its royal towers Looks down and sees the sorrow. Sir, farewell! If thou shouldst meet my children on the earth Or here, for maybe it is long ago Since I and they were living, say to them I only muse a little here, and wait The waking." And her lifted arms sank down Upon her knees, and as I passed I saw her Gazing with soft rapt eyes, and on her lips A smile as of a saint. And then I saw A manly hunter pace along the lea, His bow upon his shoulder, and his spear Poised idly in his hand: the face and form Of vigorous youth; but in the full brown eyes A timorous gaze as of a hunted hart, Brute-like, yet human still, even as the Faun Of old, the dumb brute passing into man, And dowered with double nature. As he came I seemed to question of his fate, and he Answered me thus: "'Twas one hot afternoon That I, a hunter, wearied with my day, Heard my hounds baying fainter on the hills, Led by the flying hart; and when the sound Faded and all was still, I turned to seek, O'ercome by heat and thirst, a little glade, Beloved of old, where, in the shadowy wood, The clear cold crystal of a mossy pool Lipped the soft emerald marge, and gave again The flower-starred lawn where ofttimes overspent I lay upon the grass and careless bathed My limbs in the sweet lymph. But as I neared The hollow, sudden through the leaves I saw A throng of wood-nymphs fair, sporting undraped Round one, a goddess. She with timid hand Loosened her zone, and glancing round let fall Her robe from neck and bosom, pure and bright, (For it was Dian's self I saw, none else) As when she frees her from a fleece of cloud And swims along the deep blue sea of heaven On sweet June nights. Silent awhile I stood, Rooted with awe, and fain had turned to fly, But feared by careless footstep to affright Those chaste cold eyes. Great awe and reverence Held me, and fear; then Love with passing wing Fanned me, and held my eyes, and checked my breath, Signing 'Beware!' So for a time I watched, Breathless as one a brooding nightmare holds, Who fleeth some great fear, yet fleeth not; Till the last flutter of lawn, and veil no more Obscured, and all the beauty of my dreams Assailed my sense. But ere I raised my eyes, As one who fain would look and see the sun, The first glance dazed my brain. Only I knew The perfect outline flow in tender curves, To break in doubled charms; only a haze Of creamy white, dimple, and deep divine: And then no more. For lo! a sudden chill, And such thick mist as shuts the hills at eve, Oppressed me gazing; and a heaven-sent shame, An awe, a fear, a reverence for the unknown, Froze all the springs of will and left me cold, And blinded all the longings of my eyes, Leaving such dim reflection still as mocks Him who has looked on a great light, and keeps On his closed eyes the image. Presently, My fainting soul, safe hidden for awhile Deep in Life's mystic shades, renewed herself, And straight, the innocent brute within the man Bore on me, and with half-averted eye I gazed upon the secret. As I looked, A radiance, white as beamed the frosty moon On the mad boy and slew him, beamed on me; Made chill my pulses, checked my life and heat; Transformed me, withered all my soul, and left My being burnt out. For lo! the dreadful eyes Of Godhead met my gaze, and through the mask And thick disguise of sense, as through a wood, Pierced to my life. Then suddenly I knew An altered nature, touched by no desire For that which showed so lovely, but declined To lower levels. Nought of fear or awe, Nothing of love was mine. Wide-eyed I gazed, But saw no spiritual beam to blight My brain with too much beauty, no undraped And awful majesty; only a brute, Dumb charm, like that which draws the brute to it, Unknowing it is drawn. So gradually I knew a dull content o'ercloud my sense, And unabashed I gazed, like that dumb bird Which thinks no thought and speaks no word, yet fronts The sun that blinded Homer--all my fear Sunk with my shame, in a base happiness. But as I gazed, and careless turned and passed Through the thick wood, forgetting what had been, And thinking thoughts no longer, swift there came A mortal terror: voices that I knew, My own hounds' bayings that I loved before, As with them often o'er the purple hills I chased the flying hart from slope to slope, Before the slow sun climbed the Eastern peaks, Until the swift sun smote the Western plain; Whom often I had cheered by voice and glance, Whom often I had checked with hand and thong Grim followers, like the passions, firing me, True servants, like the strong nerves, urging me On many a fruitless chase, to find and take Some too swift-fleeting beauty; faithful feet And tongues, obedient always: these I knew, Clothed with a new-born force and vaster grown, And stronger than their master; and I thought, What if they tare me with their jaws, nor knew That once I ruled them,--brute pursuing brute, And I the quarry? Then I turned and fled,-- If it was I indeed that feared and fled-- Down the long glades, and through the tangled brakes, Where scarce the sunlight pierced; fled on and on, And panted, self-pursued. But evermore The dissonant music which I knew so sweet, When by the windy hills, the echoing vales, And whispering pines it rang, now far, now near, As from my rushing steed I leant and cheered With voice and horn the chase--this brought to me Fear of I knew not what, which bade me fly, Fly always, fly; but when my heart stood still, And all my limbs were stiffened as I fled, Just as the white moon ghost-like climbed the sky, Nearer they came and nearer, baying loud, With bloodshot eyes and red jaws dripping foam; And when I strove to check their savagery, Speaking with words; no voice articulate came, Only a dumb, low bleat. Then all the throng Leapt swift on me, and tare me as I lay, And left me man again. Wherefore I walk Along these dim fields peopled with the ghosts Of heroes who have left the ways of earth For this faint ghost of them. Sometimes I think, Pondering on what has been, that all my days Were shadows, all my life an allegory; And, though I know sometimes some fainter gleam Of the old beauty move me, and sometimes Some beat of the old pulses; that my fate, For ever hurrying on in hot pursuit, To fall at length self-slain, was but a tale Writ large by Zeus upon a mortal life, Writ large, and yet a riddle. For sometimes I read its meaning thus: Life is a chase, And Man the hunter, always following on, With hounds of rushing thought or fiery sense, Some hidden truth or beauty, fleeting still For ever through the thick-leaved coverts deep And wind-worn wolds of time. And if he turn A moment from the hot pursuit to seize Some chance-brought sweetness, other than the search To which his soul is set,--some dalliance, Some outward shape of Art, some lower love, Some charm of wealth and sleek content and home,-- Then, if he check an instant, the swift chase Of fierce untempered energies which pursue, With jaws unsated and a thirst for act, Bears down on him with clanging shock, and whelms His prize and him in ruin. And sometimes I seem to myself a thinker, who at last, Amid the chase and capture of low ends, Pausing by some cold well of hidden thought Comes on some perfect truth, and looks and looks Till the fair vision blinds him. And the sum Of all his lower self pursuing him, The strong brute forces, the unchecked desires, Finding him bound and speechless, deem him now No more their master, but some soulless thing; And leap on him, and seize him, and possess His life, till through death's gate he pass to life, And, his own ghost, revives. But looks no more Upon the truth unveiled, save through a cloud Of creed and faith and longing, which shall change One day to perfect knowledge. But whoe'er Shall read the riddle of my life, I walk In this dim land amid dim ghosts of kings, As one day thou shalt; meantime, fare thou well." Then passed he; and I marked him slowly go Along the winding ways of that weird land, And vanish in a wood. And next I knew A woman perfect as a young man's dream, And breathing as it seemed the old sweet air Of the fair days of old, when man was young And life an Epic. Round the lips a smile Subtle and deep and sweet as hers who looks From the old painter's canvas, and derides Life and the riddle of things, the aimless strife, The folly of Love, as who has proved it all, Enjoyed and suffered. In the lovely eyes A weary look, no other than the gaze Which ofttimes as the rapid chariot whirls, And ofttimes by the glaring midnight streets, Gleams out and chills our thought. And yet not guilt Nor sorrow was it; only weariness, No more, and still most lovely. As I named Her name in haste, she looked with half surprise, And thus she seemed to speak: "What? Dost thou know Thou too, the fatal glances which beguiled Those strong rude chiefs of old? Has not the gloom Of this dim land withdrawn from out mine eyes The glamour which once filled them? Does my cheek Retain the round of youth and still defy The wear of immemorial centuries? And this low voice, long silent, keeps it still The music of old time? Aye, in thine eyes I read it, and within thine eyes I see Thou knowest me, and the story of my life Sung by the blind old bard when I was dead, And all my lovers dust. I know thee not, Thee nor thy gods, yet would I soothly swear I was not all to blame for what has been, The long fight, the swift death, the woes, the tears The brave lives spent, the humble homes uptorn To gain one poor fair face. It was not I That curved these lips into this subtle smile, Or gave these eyes their fire, nor yet made round This supple frame. It was not I, but Love, Love mirroring himself in all things fair, Love that projects himself upon a life, And dotes on his own image. Ah! the days, The weary years of Love and feasts and gold, The hurried flights, the din of clattering hoofs At midnight, when the heroes dared for me, And bore me o'er the hills; the swift pursuits Baffled and lost; or when from isle to isle The high-oared galley spread its wings and rose Over the swelling surges, and I saw, Time after time, the scarce familiar town, The sharp-cut hills, the well-loved palaces, The gleaming temples fade, and all for me, Me the dead prize, the shell, the soulless ghost, The husk of a true woman; the fond words Wasted on careless ears, that seemed to hear, Of love to me unloving; the rich feasts, The silken dalliance and soft luxury, The fair observance and high reverence For me who cared not, to whatever land My kingly lover snatched me. I have known How small a fence Love sets between the king And the strong hind, who breeds his brood, and dies Upon the field he tills. I have exchanged People for people, crown for glittering crown, Through every change a queen, and held my state Hateful, and sickened in my soul to lie Stretched on soft cushions to the lutes' low sound, While on the wasted fields the clang of arms Rang, and the foemen perished, and swift death, Hunger, and plague, and every phase of woe Vexed all the land for me. I have heard the curse Unspoken, when the wife widowed for me Clasped to her heart her orphans starved for me; As I swept proudly by. I have prayed the gods, Hating my own fair face which wrought such woe, Some plague divine might light on it and leave My curse a ruin. Yet I think indeed They had not cursed but pitied, those true wives Who mourned their humble lords, and straining felt The innocent thrill which swells the mother's heart Who clasps her growing boy; had they but known The lifeless life, the pain of hypocrite smiles, The dead load of caresses simulated, When Love stands shuddering by to see his fires Lit for the shrine of gold. What if they felt The weariness of loveless love which grew And through the jealous palace portals seized The caged unloving woman, sick of toys, Sick of her gilded chains, her ease, herself, Till for sheer weariness she flew to meet Some new unloved seducer? What if they knew No childish loving hands, or worse than all, Had borne them sullen to a sire unloved, And left them without pain? I might have been, I too, a loving mother and chaste wife, Had Fate so willed. For I remember well How one day straying from my father's halls Seeking anemones and violets, A girl in Spring-time, when the heart makes Spring Within the budding bosom, that I came Of a sudden through a wood upon a bay, A little sunny land-locked bay, whose banks Sloped gently downward to the yellow sand, Where the blue wave creamed soft with fairy foam, And oft the Nereids sported. As I strayed Singing, with fresh-pulled violets in my hair And bosom, and my hands were full of flowers, I came upon a little milk-white lamb, And took it in my arms and fondled it, And wreathed its neck with flowers, and sang to it And kissed it, and the Spring was in my life, And I was glad. And when I raised my eyes Behold, a youthful shepherd with his crook Stood by me and regarded as I lay, Tall, fair, with clustering curls, and front that wore A budding manhood. As I looked a fear Came o'er me, lest he were some youthful god Disguised in shape of man, so fair he was; But when he spoke, the kindly face was full Of manhood, and the large eyes full of fire Drew me without a word, and all the flowers Fell from me, and the little milk-white lamb Strayed through the brake, and took with it the white Fair years of childhood. Time fulfilled my being With passion like a cup, and with one kiss Left me a woman. Ah! the lovely days, When on the warm bank crowned with flowers we sate And thought no harm, and his thin reed pipe made Low music, and no witness of our love Intruded, but the tinkle of the flock Came from the hill, and 'neath the odorous shade We dreamed away the day, and watched the waves Steal shoreward, and beyond the sylvan capes The innumerable laughter of the sea! Ah youth and love! So passed the happy days Till twilight, and I stole as in a dream Homeward, and lived as in a happy dream, And when they spoke answered as in a dream, And through the darkness saw, as in a glass, The happy, happy day, and thrilled and glowed And kept my love in sleep, and longed for dawn And scarcely stayed for hunger, and with morn Stole eager to the little wood, and fed My life with kisses. Ah! the joyous days Of innocence, when Love was Queen in heaven, And nature unreproved! Break they then still, Those azure circles, on a golden shore? Smiles there no glade upon the older earth Where spite of all, gray wisdom, and new gods, Young lovers dream within each other's arms Silent, by shadowy grove, or sunlit sea? Ah days too fair to last! There came a night When I lay longing for my love, and knew Sudden the clang of hoofs, the broken doors. The clash of swords, the shouts, the groans, the stain Of red upon the marble, the fixed gaze Of dead and dying eyes,--that was the time When first I looked on death,--and when I woke From my deep swoon, I felt the night air cool Upon my brow, and the cold stars look down, As swift we galloped o'er the darkling plain; And saw the chill sea glimpses slowly wake, With arms unknown around me. When the dawn Broke swift, we panted on the pathless steeps, And so by plain and mountain till we came To Athens, where they kept me till I grew Fairer with every year, and many wooed, Heroes and chieftains, but I loved not one. And then the avengers came and snatched me back To Sparta. All the dark high-crested chiefs Of Argos wooed me, striving king with king For one fair foolish face, nor knew I kept No heart to give them. Yet since I was grown Weary of honeyed words and suit of love, I wedded a brave chief, dauntless and true. But what cared I? I could not prize at all His honest service. I had grown so tired Of loving and of love, that when they brought News that the fairest shepherd on the hills, Having done himself to death for his lost love, Lay, like a lovely statue, cold and white Upon the golden sand, I hardly knew More than a passing pang. Love, like a flower, Love, springing up too tall in a young breast, The growth of morning, Life's too scorching sun Had withered long ere noon. Love, like a flame On his own altar offering up my heart, Had burnt my being to ashes. Was it love That drew me then to Paris? He was fair, I grant you, fairer than a summer morn, Fair with a woman's fairness, yet in arms A hero, but he never had my heart, Not love for him allured me, but the thirst For freedom, if in more than thought I erred, And was not rapt but willing. For my child, Born to an unloved father, loved me not, The fresh sea called, the galleys plunged, and I Fled willing from my prison and the pain Of undesired caresses, and the wind Was fair, and on the third day as we sailed, My heart was glad within me when I saw The towers of Ilium rise beyond the wave. Ah, the long years, the melancholy years, The miserable melancholy years! For soon the new grew old, and then I grew Weary of him, of all, of pomp and state And novel splendour. Yet at times I knew Some thrill of pride within me as I saw From those high walls, a prisoner and a foe, The swift ships flock at anchor in the bay, The hasty landing and the flash of arms, The lines of royal tents upon the plain, The close-shut gates, the chivalry within Issuing in all its pride to meet the shock Of the bold chiefs without; so year by year The haughty challenge from the warring hosts Rang forth, and I with a divided heart Saw victory incline, now here, now there, And helpless marked the Argive chiefs I knew, The spouse I left, the princely loves of old, Now with each other strive, and now with Troy: The brave pomp of the morn, the fair strong limbs, The glittering panoply, the bold young hearts, Athirst for fame of war, and with the night The broken spear, the shattered helm, the plume Dyed red with blood, the ghastly dying face, And nerveless limbs laid lifeless. And I knew The stainless Hector whom I could have loved, But that a happy love made blind his eyes To all my baleful beauty; fallen and dragged His noble, manly head upon the sand By young Achilles' chariot; him in turn Fallen and slain; my fair false Paris slain; Plague, famine, battle, raging now within, And now without, for many a weary year, Summer and winter, till I loathed to live, Who was indeed, as well they said, the Hell Of men, and fleets, and cities. As I stood Upon the walls, ofttimes a longing came, Looking on rage, and fight, and blood, and death, To end it all, and dash me down and die; But no god helped me. Nay, one day I mind I would entreat them. 'Pray you, lords, be men. What fatal charm is this which Até gives To one poor foolish face? Be strong, and turn In peace, forget this glamour, get you home With all your fleets and armies, to the land I love no longer, where your faithful wives Pine widowed of their lords, and your young boys Grow wild to manhood. I have nought to give, No heart, nor prize of love for any man, Nor recompense. I am the ghost alone Of the fair girl ye knew; she still abides, If she still lives and is not wholly dead, Stretched on a flowery bank upon the sea In fair heroic Argos. Leave this form That is no other than the outward shell Of a once loving woman.' As I spake, My pity fired my eyes and flushed my cheek With some soft charm; and as I spread my hands, The purple, glancing down a little, left The marble of my breasts and one pink bud Upon the gleaming snows. And as I looked With a mixed pride and terror, I beheld The brute rise up within them, and my words Fall barren on them. So I sat apart, Nor ever more looked forth, while every day Brought its own woe. The melancholy years, The miserable melancholy years, Crept onward till the midnight terror came, And by the glare of burning streets I saw Palace and temple reel in ruin and fall, And the long-baffled legions, bursting in By gate and bastion, blunted sword and spear With unresisted slaughter. From my tower I saw the good old king; his kindly eyes In agony, and all his reverend hairs Dabbled with blood, as the fierce foeman thrust And stabbed him as he lay; the youths, the girls, Whom day by day I knew, their silken ease And royal luxury changed for blood and tears, Haled forth to death or worse. Then a great hate Of life and fate seized on me, and I rose And rushed among them, crying, 'See, 'tis I, I who have brought this evil! Kill me! kill The fury that is I, yet is not I! And let my soul go outward through the wound Made clean by blood to Hades! Let me die, Not these who did no wrong!' But not a hand Was raised, and all shrank backward as afraid, As from a goddess. Then I swooned and fell And knew no more, and when I woke I felt My husband's arms around me, and the wind Blew fair for Greece, and the beaked galley plunged; And where the towers of Ilium rose of old, A pall of smoke above a glare of fire. What then in the near future? Ten long years Bring youth and love to that deep summer-tide When the full noisy current of our lives Creeps dumb through wealth of flowers. I think I knew Somewhat of peace at last, with my good Lord Who loved too much, to palter with the past, Flushed with the present. Young Hermione Had grown from child to woman. She was wed; And was not I her mother? At the pomp Of solemn nuptials and requited love, I prayed she might be happy, happier far Than ever I was; so in tranquil ease I lived a queen long time, and because wealth And high observance can make sweet our days When youth's swift joy is past, I did requite With what I might, not love, the kindly care Of him I loved not; pomps and robes of price And chariots held me. But when Fate cut short His life and love, his sons who were not mine Reigned in his stead, and hated me and mine: And knowing I was friendless, I sailed forth Once more across the sea, seeking for rest And shelter. Still I knew that in my eyes Love dwelt, and all the baleful charm of old Burned as of yore, scarce dimmed as yet by time: I saw it in the mirror of the sea, I saw it in the youthful seamen's eyes, And was half proud again I had such power Who now kept nothing else. So one calm eve, Behold, a sweet fair isle blushed like a rose Upon the summer sea: there my swift ship Cast anchor, and they told me it was Rhodes. There, in a little wood above the sea, Like that dear wood of yore, I wandered forth Forlorn, and all my seamen were apart, And I, alone; when at the close of day I knew myself surrounded by strange churls With angry eyes, and one who ordered them, A woman, whom I knew not, but who walked In mien and garb a queen. She, with the fire Of hate within her eyes, 'Quick, bind her, men! I know her; bind her fast!' Then to the trunk Of a tall plane they bound me with rude cords That cut my arms. And meantime, far below, The sun was gilding fair with dying rays Isle after isle and purple wastes of sea. And then she signed to them, and all withdrew Among the woods and left us, face to face, Two women. Ere I spoke, 'I know,' she said, 'I know that evil fairness. This it was, Or ever he had come across my life, That made him cold to me, who had my love And left me half a heart. If all my life Of wedlock was but half a life, what fiend Came 'twixt my love and me, but that fair face? What left his children orphans, but that face? And me a widow? Fiend! I have thee now; Thou hast not long to live. I will requite Thy murders; yet, oh fiend! that art so fair, Were it not haply better to deface Thy fatal loveliness, and leave thee bare Of all thy baleful power? And yet I doubt, And looking on thy face I doubt the more, Lest all thy dower of fairness be the gift Of Aphrodité, and I fear to fight Against the immortal Gods.' Even with the word, And she relenting, all the riddle of life Flashed through me, and the inextricable coil Of Being, and the immeasurable depths And irony of Fate, burst on my thought And left me smiling in the eyes of death, With this deep smile thou seëst. Then with a shriek The woman leapt on me, and with blind rage Strangled my life. And when she had done the deed She swooned, and those her followers hasting back Fell prone upon their knees before the corpse As to a goddess. Then one went and brought A sculptor, and within a jewelled shrine They set me in white marble, bound to a tree Of marble. And they came and knelt to me, Young men and maidens, through the secular years, While the old gods bore sway, but I was here, And now they kneel no longer, for the world Has gone from beauty. But I think, indeed, They well might worship still, for never yet Was any thought or thing of beauty born Except with suffering. That poor wretch who thought I injured her, stealing the foolish heart Which she prized but I could not, what knew she Of that I suffered? She had loved her love, Though unrequited, and had borne to him Children who loved her. What if she had been Loved yet unloving: all the fire of love Burnt out before love's time in one brief blaze Of passion. Ah, poor fool! I pity her, Being blest and yet unthankful, and forgive, Now that she is a ghost as I, the hand Which loosed my load of life. For scarce indeed Could any god who cares for mortal men Have ever kept me happy. I had tired Of simple loving, doubtless, as I tired Of splendour and being loved. There be some souls For which love is enough, content to bear From youth to age, from chesnut locks to gray, The load of common, uneventful life And penury. But I was not of these; I know not now, if it were best indeed That I had reared my simple shepherd brood, And lived and died unknown in some poor hut Among the Argive hills; or lived a queen As I did, knowing every day that dawned Some high emprise and glorious, and in death To fill the world with song. Not the same meed The gods mete out for all, or She, the dread Necessity, who rules both gods and men, Some to dishonour, some to honour moulds, To happiness some, some to unhappiness. We are what Zeus has made us, discords playing In the great music, but the harmony Is sweeter for them, and the great spheres ring In one accordant hymn. But thou, if e'er There come a daughter of thy love, oh pray To all thy gods, lest haply they should mar Her life with too great beauty!" So she ceased. The fairest woman that the poet's dream Or artist hand has fashioned. All the gloom Seemed lightened round her, and I heard the sound Of her melodious voice when all was still, And the dim twilight took her. Next there came Two who together walked: one with a lyre Of gold, which gave no sound; the other hung Upon his breast, and closely clung to him, Spent in a tender longing. As they came, I heard her gentle voice recounting o'er Some ancient tale, and these the words she said: "Dear voice and lyre now silent, which I heard Across yon sullen river, bringing to me All my old life, and he, the ferryman, Heard and obeyed, and the grim monster heard And fawned on you. Joyous thou cam'st and free Like a white sunbeam from the dear bright earth, Where suns shone clear, and moons beamed bright, and streams Laughed with a rippling music,--nor as here The dumb stream stole, the veiled sky slept, the fields Were lost in twilight. Like a morning breeze, Which blows in summer from the gates of dawn Across the fields of spice, and wakes to life Their slumbering perfume, through this silent land Of whispering voices and of half-closed eyes, Where scarce a footstep sounds, nor any strain Of earthly song, thou cam'st; and suddenly The pale cheeks flushed a little, the murmured words Rose to a faint, thin treble; the throng of ghosts Pacing along the sunless ways and still, Felt a new life. Thou camest, dear, and straight The dull cold river broke in sparkling foam, The pale and scentless flowers grew perfumed; last To the dim chamber, where with the sad queen I sat in gloom, and silently inwove Dead wreaths of amaranths; thy music came Laden with life, and I, who seemed to know Not life's voice only, but my own, rose up, Along the hollow pathways following The sound which brought back earth and life and love, And memory and longing. Yet I went With half-reluctant footsteps, as of one Whom passion draws, or some high fantasy, Despite himself, because some subtle spell, Part born of dread to cross that sullen stream And its grim guardians, part of secret shame Of the young airs and freshness of the earth, Being that I was, enchained me. Then at last, From voice and lyre so high a strain arose As trembled on the utter verge of being, And thrilling, poured out life. Thus closelier drawn I walked with thee, shut in by halcyon sound And soft environments of harmony, Beyond the ghostly gates, beyond the dim Calm fields, where the beetle hummed and the pale owl Stole noiseless from the copse, and the white blooms Stretched thin for lack of sun: so fair a light Born out of consonant sound environed me. Nor looked I backward, as we seemed to move To some high goal of thought and life and love, Like twin birds flying fast with equal wing Out of the night, to meet the coming sun Above a sea. But on thy dear fair eyes, The eyes that well I knew on the old earth, I looked not, for with still averted gaze Thou leddest, and I followed; for, indeed, While that high strain was sounding, I was rapt In faith and a high courage, driving out All doubt and discontent and womanish fear, Nay, even my love itself. But when awhile It sank a little, or seemed to sink and fall To lower levels, seeing that use makes blunt The too accustomed ear, straightway, desire To look once more on thy recovered eyes Seized me, and oft I called with piteous voice, Beseeching thee to turn. But thou long time Wert even as one unmindful, with grave sign And waving hand, denying. Finally, When now we neared the stream, on whose far shore Lay life, great terror took me, and I shrieked Thy name, as in despair. Then thou, as one Who knows him set in some great jeopardy, A swift death fronting him on either hand, Didst slowly turning gaze; and lo! I saw Thine eyes grown awful, life that looked on death, Clear purity on dark and cankered sin, The immortal on corruption,--not the eyes That erst I knew in life, but dreadfuller, And stranger. As I looked, I seemed to swoon, Some blind force whirled me back, and when I woke I saw thee vanish in the middle stream, A speck on the dull waters, taking with thee My life, and leaving Love with me. But I Not for myself bewail, but all for thee, Who, but for me, wert now among the stars With thy great Lord; I sitting at thy feet: But now the fierce and unrestrainèd rout Of passions woman-natured, finding thee Scornful of love within thy lonely cell, With blind rage falling on thee, tore thy limbs, And left them to the Muses' sepulture, While thy soul dwells in Hades. But I wail My weakness always, who for Love destroyed The life that was my Love. I prithee, dear, Forgive me if thou canst, who hast lost heaven To save a loving woman." He with voice Sweeter than any mortal melody, And plaintive as the music that is made By the Æolian strings, or the sad bird That sings of summer nights: "Eurydice, Dear love, be comforted; not once alone That which thou mournest is, but day by day Some lonely soul, which walks apart and feeds On high hill pastures, far from herds of men, Comes to the low fat fields, and sunny vales Joyous with fruits and flowers, and the white arms Of laughing love; and there awhile he stays Content, forgetting all the joys he knew, When first the morning broke upon the hills, And the keen air breathed from the Eastern gates Like a pure draught of wine; forgetting all The strains which float, as from a nearer heaven, To him who treads at dawn the untrodden snows, While all the warm world sleeps;--forgetting these And all things that have been. And if he gain To raise to his own heights the simpler souls That dwell upon the plains, the untutored thought, The museless lives, the unawakened brain That yet might soar, then is he blest indeed. But if he fail, then, leaving love behind, The wider love of the race, the closer love Of some congenial soul, he turns again To the old difficult steeps, and there alone Pines, till the widowed passions of his heart Tear him and rend his soul, and drive him down To the low plains he left. And there he dwells, Missing the heavens, dear, and the white peaks, And the light air of old; but in their stead Finding the soft sweet sun of the vale, the clouds Which veil the skies indeed, but give the rains That feed the streams of life and make earth green, And bring at last the harvest. So I walk In this dim land content with thee, O Love, Untouched by any yearning of regret For those old days; nor that the lyre which made Erewhile such potent music now is dumb; Nor that the voice that once could move the earth (Zeus speaking through it), speaks in household words Of homely love: Love is enough for me With thee, O dearest; and perchance at last, Zeus willing, this dumb lyre and whispered voice Shall wake, by Love inspired, to such clear note As soars above the stars, and swelling, lifts Our souls to highest heaven." Then he stooped, And, folded in one long embrace, they went And faded. And I cried, "Oh, strong God, Love, Mightier than Death and Hell!" And then I chanced On a fair woman, whose sad eyes were full Of a fixed self-reproach, like his who knows Himself the fountain of his grief, and pines In self-inflicted sorrow. As I spake Enquiring of her grief, she answered thus: "Stranger, thou seest of all the shades below The most unhappy. Others sought their love In death, and found it, dying; but for me The death that took me, took from me my love, And left me comfortless. No load I bear Like those dark wicked women, who have slain Their Lords for lust or anger, whom the dread Propitious Ones within the pit below Punish and purge of sin; only unfaith, If haply want of faith be not a crime Blacker than murder, when we fail to trust One worthy of all faith, and folly bring No harder recompense than comes of scorn And loathing of itself. Ah, fool, fool, fool, Who didst mistrust thy love, who was the best, And truest, manliest soul with whom the gods Have ever blest the earth; so brave, so strong, Fired with such burning hate of powerful ill, So loving of the race, so swift to raise The fearless arm and mighty club, and smite All monstrous growths with ruin--Zeus himself Showed scarce more mighty--and yet was the while A very man, not cast in mould too fine For human love, but ofttimes snared and caught By womanish wiles, fast held within the net His passions wove. Oh, it was grand to hear Of how he went, the champion of his race, Mighty in war, mighty in love, now bent To more than human tasks, now lapt in ease, Now suffering, now enjoying. Strong, vast soul, Tuned to heroic deeds, and set on high Above the range of common petty sins-- Too high to mate with an unequal soul, Too full of striving for contented days. Ah me, how well I do recall the cause Of all our ills! I was a happy bride When that dark Até which pursues the steps Of heroes--innocent blood-guiltiness-- Drove us to exile, and I joyed to be His own, and share his pain. To a swift stream Fleeing we came, where a rough ferryman Waited, more brute than man. My hero plunged In those fierce depths and battled with their flow, And with great labour gained the strand, and bade The monster row me to him. But with lust And brutal cunning in his eyes, the thing Seized me and turned to fly with me, when swift An arrow hissed from the unerring bow, Pierced him, and loosed his grasp. Then as his eyes Grew glazed in death there came in them a gleam Of what I know was hate, and he said, 'Take This white robe. It is costly. See, my blood Has stained it but a little. I did wrong: I know it, and repent me. If there come A time when he grows cold--for all the race Of heroes wander, nor can any love Fix theirs for long--take it and wrap him in it, And he shall love again.' Then, from the strange Deep look within his eyes I shrank in fear, And left him half in pity, and I went To meet my Lord, who rose from that fierce stream Fair as a god. Ah me, the weary days We women live, spending our anxious souls, Consumed with jealous fancies, hungering still For the belovèd voice and ear and eye, And hungering all in vain! For life is more To youthful manhood than to sit at home Before the hearth to watch the children's ways And lead the life of petty household care Which doth content us women. Day by day I pined in Trachis for my love, while he, Now in some warlike exploit busied, now Fighting some monster, now at some fair court, Resting awhile till some new enterprise Called him, returned not. News of treacheries Avenged, friends succoured, dreadful monsters slain, Came from him: always triumph, always fame, And honour, and success, and reverence, And sometimes, words of love for me who pined For more than words, and would have gone to him But that the toils of such high errantry Asked more than woman's strength. So the slow years Vexed me alone in Trachis, set forlorn In solitude, nor hearing at the gate The frank and cheering voice, nor on the stair The heavy tread, nor feeling the strong arm Around me in the darkling night, when all My being ran slow. Last, subtle whispers came Of womanish wiles which kept my Lord from me, And one who, young and fair, a fresh-blown life And virgin, younger, fairer far than I When first he loved me, held him in the toils Of scarce dissembled love. Not easily Might I believe this evil, but at last The oft-repeated malice finding me Forlorn, and sitting imp-like at my ear, Possessed me, and the fire of jealous love Raged through my veins, not turned as yet to hate-- Too well I loved for that--but breeding in me Unfaith in him. Love, setting him so high And self so low, betrayed me, and I prayed, Constrained to hold him false, the immortal gods To make him love again. But still he came not. And still the maddening rumours worked, and still 'Fair, young, and a king's daughter,' the same words Smote me and pierced me. Oh, there is no pain In Hades--nay, nor deepest Hell itself, Like that of jealous hearts, the torture-pain Which racked my life so long. Till one fair morn There came a joyful message. 'He has come! And at the shrine upon the promontory, The fair white shrine upon the purple sea, He waits to do his solemn sacrifice To the immortal gods; and with him comes A young maid beautiful as Dawn.' Then I, Mingling despair with love, rapt in deep joy That he was come, plunged in the depths of hell That she came too, bethought me of the robe The Centaur gave me, and the words he spake, Forgetting the deep hatred in his eyes, And all but love, and sent a messenger Bidding him wear it for the sacrifice To the immortals, knowing not at all Whom Fate decreed the victim. Shall my soul Forget the agonized message which he sent, Bidding me come? For that accursèd robe, Stained with the poisonous accursèd blood, Even in the midmost flush of sacrifice Clung to him a devouring fire, and ate The piteous flesh from his dear limbs, and stung His great soft soul to madness. When I came, Knowing it was my work, he bent on me, Wise as a god through suffering and the near Inevitable Death, so that no word Of mine was needed, such a tender look Of mild reproach as smote me. 'Couldst not thou Trust me, who never loved as I love thee? What need was there of magical arts to draw The love that never wavered? I have lived As he lives who through perilous paths must pass, And lifelong trials, striving to keep down The brute within him, born of too much strength And sloth and vacuous days; by difficult toils, Labours endured, and hard-fought fights with ill, Now vanquished, now triumphant; and sometimes, In intervals of too long labour, finding His nature grown too strong for him, falls prone Awhile a helpless prey, then once again Rises and spurns his chains, and fares anew Along the perilous ways. Dearest, I would That thou wert wedded to some knight who stayed At home within thy gates, and were content To see thee happy. But for me the fierce Rude energies of life, the mighty thews, The god-sent hate of Wrong, these drove me forth To quench the thirst of battle. See, this maid, This is the bride I destined for our son Who grows to manhood. Do thou see to her When I am dead, for soon I know again The frenzy comes, and with it ceasing, death. Go, therefore, ere I harm thee when my strength Has lost its guidance. Thou wert rich in love, Be now as rich in faith. Dear, for thy wrong I do forgive thee.' When I saw the glare Of madness fire his eyes, and my ears heard The groans the torture wrung from his great soul, I fled with broken heart to the white shrine, And knelt in prayer, but still my sad ear took The agony of his cries. Then I who knew There was no hope in god or man for me Who had destroyed my Love, and with him slain The champion of the suffering race of men, And knowing that my soul, though innocent Of blood, was guilty of unfaith and vile Mistrust, and wrapt in weakness like a cloak, And made the innocent tool of hate and wrong, Against all love and good; grown sick and filled With hatred of myself, rose from my knees, And went a little space apart, and found A gnarled tree on the cliff, and with my scarf Strangling myself, swung lifeless. But in death I found him not. For, building a vast pile Of scented woods on Oeta, as they tell, My hero with his own hand lighted it, And when the mighty pyre flamed far and wide Over all lands and seas, he climbed on it And laid him down to die; but pitying Zeus, Before the swift flames reached him, in a cloud Descending, snatched the strong brave soul to heaven, And set him mid the stars. Wherefore am I Of all the blameless shades within this place The most unhappy, if of blame, indeed, I bear no load. For what is Sin itself, But Error when we miss the road which leads Up to the gate of heaven? Ignorance! What if we be the cause of ignorance? Being blind who might have seen! Yet do I know But self-inflicted pain, nor stain there is Upon my soul such as they bear who know The dreadful scourge with which the stern judge still Lashes their sins. I am forgiven, I know, Who loved so much, and one day, if Zeus will, I shall go free from hence, and join my Lord, And be with him again." And straight I seemed, Passing, to look upon some scarce-spent life, Which knows to-day the irony of Fate In self-inflicted pain. Together clung The ghosts whom next I saw, bound three in one By some invisible bond. A sire of port God-like as Zeus, to whom on either hand A tender stripling clung. I knew them well, As all men know them. One fair youth spake low: "Father, it does not pain me now, to be Drawn close to thee, and by a double bond, With this my brother." And the other: "Nay, Nor me, O father; but I bless the chain Which binds our souls in union. If some trace Of pain still linger, heed it not--'tis past: Still let us cling to thee." He with grave eyes Full of great tenderness, upon his sons Looked with the father's gaze, that is so far More sweet, and sad, and tender, than the gaze Of mothers,--now on this one, now on that, Regarding them. "Dear sons, whom on the earth I loved and cherished, it was hard to watch Your pain; but now 'tis finished, and we stand For ever, through all future days of time, Symbols of patient suffering undeserved, Endured and vanquished. Yet sad memory still Brings back our time of trial. For the day Broke fair when I, the dread Poseidon's priest, Joyous because the unholy strife was done, And seeing the blue waters now left free Of hostile keels--save where upon the verge Far off the white sails faded--rose at dawn, And white robed, and in garb of sacrifice, And with the sacred fillet round my brows, Stood at the altar; and behind, ye twain, Decked by your mother's hand with new-cleansed robes, And with fresh flower-wreathed chaplets on your curls, Attended, and your clear young voices made Music that touched your father's eyes with tears, If not the careless gods. I seem to hear Those high sweet accents mounting in the hymn Which rose to all the blessed gods who dwelt Upon the far Olympus--Zeus, the Lord, And Sovereign Heré, and the immortal choir Of Deities, but chiefly to the dread Poseidon, him who sways the purple sea As with a sceptre, shaking the fixed earth With stress of thundering surges. By the shrine The meek-eyed victim, for the sacrifice, Stood with his gilded horns. The hymns were done, And I in act to strike, when all the crowd Who knelt behind us, with a common fear Cried, with a cry that well might freeze the blood, And then, with fearful glances towards the sea, Fled, leaving us alone--me, the high priest, And ye, the acolytes; forlorn of men, Alone, but with our god. But we stirred not: We could not flee, who in the solemn act Of worship, and the ecstasy which comes To the believer's soul, saw heaven revealed, The mysteries unveiled, the inner sky Which meets the enraptured gaze. How should we fear Who thus were god-encircled! So we stood While the long ritual spent itself, nor cast An eye upon the sea. Till as I came To that great act which offers up a life Before life's Lord, and the full mystery Was trembling to completion, quick I heard A stifled cry of agony, and knew My children's voices. And the father's heart, Which is far more than rite or service done By man for god, seeing that it is divine And comes from God to men--this rising in me, Constrained me, and I ceased my prayer, and turned To succour you, and lo! the awful coils Which crushed your lives already, bound me round And crushed me also, as you clung to me, In common death. Some god had heard the prayer, And lo! we were ourselves the sacrifice-- The priest, the victim, the accepted life, The blood, the pain, the salutary loss. Was it not better thus to cease and die Together in one blest moment, mid the flush And ecstasy of worship, and to know Ourselves the victims? They were wrong who taught That 'twas some jealous goddess who destroyed Our lives, revengeful for discovered wiles, Or hateful of our land. Not readily Should such base passions sway the immortal gods; But rather do I hold it sooth indeed That Zeus himself it was, who pitying The ruin he foreknew, yet might not stay, Since mightier Fate decreed it, sent in haste Those dreadful messengers, and bade them take The pious lives he loved, before the din Of midnight slaughter woke, and the fair town Flamed pitifully to the skies, and all Was blood and ruin. Surely it was best To die as we did, and in death to live, A vision for all ages of high pain Which passes into beauty, and is merged In one accordant whole, as discords merge In that great Harmony which ceaseless rings From the tense chords of life, than to have lived Our separate lives, and died our separate deaths, And left no greater mark than drops which rain Upon the unbounded sea. Those hosts which fell Before the Scæan gate upon the sand, Nor found a bard to sing their fate, but left Their bones to dogs and kites--were they more blest Than we who, in the people's sight before Ilium's unshattered towers, lay down to die Our swift miraculous death? Dear sons, and good, Dear children of my love, how doubly dear For this our common sorrow; suffering weaves Not only chains of darkness round, but binds A golden glittering link, which though withdrawn Or felt no longer, knits us soul to soul, In indissoluble bonds, and draws our lives So close, that though the individual life Be merged, there springs a common life which grows To such dread beauty, as has power to take The sting from sorrow, and transform the pain Into transcendent joy: as from the storm The unearthly rainbow draws its myriad hues And steeps the world in fairness. All our lives Are notes that fade and sink, and so are merged In the full harmony of Being. Dear sons, Cling closer to me. Life nor Death has torn Our lives asunder, as for some, but drawn Their separate strands together in a knot Closer than Life itself, stronger than Death, Insoluble as Fate." Then they three clung Together--the strong father and young sons, And in their loving eyes I saw the Pain Fade into Joy, Suffering in Beauty lost, And Death in Love! By a still sullen pool, Into its dark depths gazing, lay the ghost Whom next I passed. In form, a lovely youth, Scarce passed from boyhood. Golden curls were his, And wide blue eyes. The semblance of a smile Came on his lip--a girl's but for the down Which hardly shaded it; but the pale cheek Was soft as any maiden's, and his robe Was virginal, and at his breast he bore The perfumed amber cup which, when March comes Gems the dry woods and windy wolds, and speaks The resurrection. Looking up, he said: "Methought I saw her then, my love, my fair, My beauty, my ideal; the dim clouds Lifted, methought, a little--or was it Fond Fancy only? For I know that here No sunbeam cleaves the twilight, but a mist Creeps over all the sky and fields and pools, And blots them; and I know I seek in vain My earth-sought beauty, nor can Fancy bring An answer to my thought from these blind depths And unawakened skies. Yet has use made The quest so precious, that I keep it here, Well knowing it is vain. On the old earth 'Twas otherwise, when in fair Thessaly I walked regardless of all nymphs who sought My love, but sought in vain, whether it were Dryad or Naiad from the woods or streams, Or white-robed Oread fleeting on the side Of fair Olympus, echoing back my sighs, In vain, for through the mountains day by day I wandered, and along the foaming brooks, And by the pine-woods dry, and never took A thought for love, nor ever 'mid the throng Of loving nymphs who knew me beautiful I dallied, unregarding; till they said Some died for love of me, who loved not one. And yet I cared not, wandering still alone Amid the mountains by the scented pines. Till one fair day, when all the hills were still, Nor any breeze made murmur through the boughs, Nor cloud was on the heavens, I wandered slow, Leaving the nymphs who fain with dance and song Had kept me 'midst the glades, and strayed away Among the pines, enwrapt in fantasy, And by the beechen dells which clothe the feet Of fair Olympus, wrapt in fantasy, Weaving the thin and unembodied shapes Which Fancy loves to body forth, and leave In marble or in song; and so strayed down To a low sheltered vale above the plains, Where the lush grass grew thick, and the stream stayed Its garrulous tongue; and last upon the bank Of a still pool I came, where was no flow Of water, but the depths were clear as air, And nothing but the silvery gleaming side Of tiny fishes stirred. There lay I down Upon the flowery bank, and scanned the deep, Half in a waking dream. Then swift there rose, From those enchanted depths, a face more fair Than ever I had dreamt of, and I knew My sweet long-sought ideal: the thick curls, Like these, were golden, and the white robe showed Like this; but for the wondrous eyes and lips, The tender loving glance, the sunny smile Upon the rosy mouth, these knew I not, Not even in dreams; and yet I seemed to trace Myself within them too, as who should find His former self expunged, and him transformed To some high thin ideal, separate From what he was, by some invisible bar, And yet the same in difference. As I moved My arms to clasp her to me, lo! she moved Her eager arms to mine, smiled to my smile, Looked love to love, and answered longing eyes With longing. When my full heart burst in words, 'Dearest, I love thee,' lo! the lovely lips, 'Dearest, I love thee,' sighed, and through the air The love-lorn echo rang. But when I longed To answer kiss with kiss, and stooped my lips To her sweet lips in that long thrill which strains Soul unto soul, the cold lymph came between And chilled our love, and kept us separate souls Which fain would mingle, and the self-same heaven Rose, a blue vault above us, and no shade Of earthly thing obscured us, as we lay Two reflex souls, one and yet different, Two sundered souls longing to be at one. There, all day long, until the light was gone And took my love away, I lay and loved The image, and when night was come, 'Farewell,' I whispered, and she whispered back, 'Farewell,' With oh, such yearning! Many a day we spent By that clear pool together all day long. And many a clouded hour on the wet grass I lay beneath the rain, and saw her not, And sickened for her; and sometimes the pool Was thick with flood, and hid her; and sometimes Some cold wind ruffled those clear wells, and left But glimpses of her, and I rose at eve Unsatisfied, a cold chill in my limbs And fever at my heart: until, too soon! The summer faded, and the skies were hid, And my love came not, but a quenchless thirst Wasted my life. And all the winter long The bright sun shone not, or the thick ribbed ice Obscured her, and I pined for her, and knew My life ebb from me, till I grew too weak To seek her, fearing I should see no more My dear. And so the long dead winter waned And the slow spring came back. And one blithe day, When life was in the woods, and the birds sang, And soft airs fanned the hills, I knew again Some gleam of hope within me, and again With feeble limbs crawled forth, and felt the spring Blossom within me; and the flower-starred glades, The bursting trees, the building nests, the songs, The hurry of life revived me; and I crept, Ghost-like, amid the joy, until I flung My panting frame, and weary nerveless limbs, Down by the cold still pool. And lo! I saw My love once more, not beauteous as of old, But oh, how changed! the fair young cheek grown pale, The great eyes, larger than of yore, gaze forth With a sad yearning look; and a great pain And pity took me which were more than love, And with a loud and wailing voice I cried, 'Dearest, I come again. I pine for thee,' And swift she answered back, 'I pine for thee;' 'Come to me, oh, my own,' I cried, and she-- 'Come to me, oh, my own.' Then with a cry Of love I joined myself to her, and plunged Beneath the icy surface with a kiss, And fainted, and am here. And now, indeed, I know not if it was myself I sought, As some tell, or another. For I hold That what we seek is but our other self, Other and higher, neither wholly like Nor wholly different, the half-life the gods Retained when half was given--one the man And one the woman; and I longed to round The imperfect essence by its complement, For only thus the perfect life stands forth Whole, self-sufficing. Worse it is to live Ill-mated than imperfect, and to move From a false centre, not a perfect sphere, But with a crooked bias sent oblique Athwart life's furrows. 'Twas myself, indeed, Thus only that I sought, that lovers use To see in that they love, not that which is, But that their fancy feigns, and view themselves Reflected in their love, yet glorified, And finer and more pure. Wherefore it is: All love which finds its own ideal mate Is happy--happy that which gives itself Unto itself, and keeps, through long calm years, The tranquil image in its eyes, and knows Fulfilment and is blest, and day by day Wears love like a white flower, nor holds it less Though sharp winds bite, or hot suns fade, or age Sully its perfect whiteness, but inhales Its fragrance, and is glad. But happier still He who long seeks a high goal unattained, And wearies for it all his days, nor knows Possession sate his thirst, but still pursues The fleeting loveliness--now seen, now lost, But evermore grown fairer, till at last He stretches forth his arms and takes the fair In one long rapture, and its name is Death." Thus he; and seeing me stand grave: "Farewell. If ever thou shouldst happen on a wood In Thessaly, upon the plain-ward spurs Of fair Olympus, take the path which winds Through the close vale, and thou shalt see the pool Where once I found my life. And if in Spring Thou go there, round the margin thou shalt know These amber blooms bend meekly, smiling down Upon the crystal surface. Pluck them not. But kneel a little while, and breathe a prayer To the fair god of Love, and let them be. For in those tender flowers is hid the life That once was mine. All things are bound in one In earth and heaven, nor is there any gulf 'Twixt things that live,--the flower that was a life, The life that is a flower,--but one sure chain Binds all, as now I know. If there are still Fair Oreads on the hills, say to them, sir, They must no longer pine for me, but find Some worthier lover, who can love again; For I have found my love." And to the pool He turned, and gazed with lovely eyes, and showed Fair as an angel. Leaving him enwrapt In musings, to a gloomy pass I came Between dark rocks, where scarce a gleam of light, Not even the niggard light of that dim land, Might enter; and the soil was black and bare, Nor even the thin growths which scarcely clothed The higher fields might live. Hard by a cave Which sloped down steeply to the lowest depths, Whence dreadful sounds ascended, seated still, Her head upon her hands, I saw a maid With eyes fixed on the ground--not Tartarus It was, but Hades; and she knew no pain, Except her painful thought. Yet there it seemed, As here, the unequal measure which awaits The adjustment, and meanwhile, inspires the strife Which rears life's palace walls; and fills the sail Which bears our bark across unfathomed seas, To its last harbour; this bore sway there too, And 'twas a luckless shade which sat and wept Amid the gloom, though blameless. Suddenly, She raised her head, and lo! the long curls, writhed Tangled, and snake-like--as the dripping hair Of a dead girl who freed from life and shame, From out the cruel wintry flow, is laid Stark on the snow with dreadful staring eyes Like hers. For when she raised her eyes to mine, They chilled my blood, so great a woe they bore; And as she gazed, wide-eyed, I knew my pulse Beat slow, and my limbs stiffen. Then they wore, At length, a softer look, and life revived Within my breast as thus she softly spoke: "Nay, friend, I would not harm thee. I have known Great sorrow, and sometimes it racks me still, And turns me into stone, and makes my eyes As dreadful as of yore; and yet it comes But seldom, as thou sawest, now, for Time And Death have healing hands. Only I love To sit within the darkness here, nor face The throng of happier ghosts; if any ghost Of happiness come here. For on the earth They wronged me bitterly, and turned to stone My heart, till scarce I knew if e'er I was The happy girl of yore. That youth who dreams Up yonder by the margin of the lake, Knew but a cold ideal love, but me Love in unearthly guise, but bodily form, Seized and betrayed. I was a priestess once, Of stern Athené, doing day by day Due worship; raising, every dawn that came, My cold pure hymns to take her virgin ear; Nor sporting with the joyous company Of youths and maids, who at the neighbouring shrine Of Aphrodité served. Nor dance nor song Allured me, nor the pleasant days of youth And twilights 'mid the vines. They held me cold Who were my friends in childhood. For my soul Was virginal, and at the virgin shrine I knelt, athirst for knowledge. Day by day The long cold ritual sped, the liturgies Were done, the barren hymns of praise went up Before the goddess, and the ecstasy Of faith possessed me wholly, till almost I knew not I was woman. Yet I knew That I was fair to see, and fit to share Some natural honest love, and bear the load Of children like the rest; only my soul Was lost in higher yearnings. Like a god, He burst upon those pallid lifeless days, Bringing fresh airs and salt, as from the sea, And wrecked my life. How should a virgin know Deceit, who never at the joyous shrine Of Cypris knelt, but ever lived apart, And so grew guilty? For if I had spent My days among the throng, either my fault Were blameless, or undone. For innocence The tempter spreads his net. For innocence The gods keep all their terrors. Innocence It is that bears the burden, which for guilt Is lightened, and the spoiler goes his way, Uncaring, joyous, leaving her alone, The victim and unfriended. Was it just In her, my mistress, who had had my youth, To wreak such vengeance on me? I had erred, It may be; but on him, whose was the guilt, No heaven-sent vengeance lighted, but he sped Away to other hearts across the deep, Careless and free; but me, the cold stern eyes Of the pure goddess withered; and the scorn Of maids, despised before, and the great blank Of love, whose love was gone--this wrung my heart, And froze my blood; set on my brow despair, And turned my gaze to stone, and filled my eyes With horror, and stiffened the soft curls which once Lay smooth and fair into such snake-like rings As made my aspect fearful. All who saw, Shrank from me and grew cold, and felt the warm, Full tide of life freeze in them, seeing in me Love's work, who sat wrapt up and lost in shame, As in a cloak, consuming my own heart, And was in hell already. As they gazed Upon me, my despair looked forth so cold From out my eyes, that if some spoiler came Fresh from his wickedness, and looked on them, Their glare would strike him dead; and those fair curls Which once the accursèd toyed with, grew to be The poisonous things thou seest; and so, with hate Of man's injustice and the gods', who knew Me blameless, and yet punished me; and sick Of life and love, and loathing earth and sky, And feeding on my sorrow, Hate at last Left me a Fury. Ah, the load of life Which lives for hatred! We are made to love-- We women, and the injury which turns The honey of our lives to gall, transforms The angel to the fiend. For it is sweet To know the dreadful sense of strength, and smite And leave the tyrant dead with a glance; ay! sweet, In that fierce lust of power, to slay the life Which harmed not, when the suppliants' cry ascends To ears which hate has deafened. So I lived Long time in misery; to my sleepless eyes No healing slumbers coming; but at length, Zeus and the goddess pitying, I knew Soft rest once more veiling my dreadful gaze In peaceful slumbers. Then a blessed dream I dreamt. For, lo! a god-like knight in mail Of gold, who sheared with his keen flashing blade; With scarce a pang of pain, the visage cold Which too great sorrow left me; at one stroke Clean from the trunk, and then o'er land and sea, Invisible, sped with winged heels, to where, Upon a sea-worn cape, a fair young maid, More blameless even than I was, chained and bound, Waited a monster from the deep and stood In innocent nakedness. Then, as he rose, Loathsome, from out the depths, a monstrous growth, A creature wholly serpent, partly man, The wrongs that I had known, stronger than death, Rose up with such black hate in me again, And wreathed such hissing poison through my hair, And shot such deadly glances from my eyes, That nought that saw might live. And the vile worm Was slain, and she delivered. Then I dreamt My mistress, whom I thought so stern to me, Athené, set those dreadful staring eyes, And that despairing visage, on her shield Of chastity, and bears it evermore To fright the waverer from the wrong he would, And strike the unrepenting spoiler, dead." Then for a little paused she, while I saw Again her eyes grown dreadful, till once more, And with a softer glance: "From that blest dream I woke not on the earth, but only here. And now my pain is lightened since I know My dream, which was a dream within the dream Which is our life, fulfilled. And I have saved Another through my suffering, and through her A people. Oh, strange chain of sacrifice, That binds an innocent life, and from its blood And sorrow works out joy! Oh, mystery Of pain and evil! wrong grown salutary, And mighty to redeem! If thou shouldst see A woman on the earth, who pays to-day Like penalty of sin, and the new gods (For after Saturn, Zeus ruled; after him It may be there are others) love to take The tender heart of girlhood, and to immure Within a cold and cloistered cell the life Which nature meant to bless, and if Love come Hold her accursèd; or to some poor maid, Forlorn and trusting, still the tempter comes And works his wrong, and leaves her in despair And shame and all abhorrence, while he goes His way unpunished,--if thou know her eyes Freeze thee like mine--oh! bid her lose her pain In succouring others--say to her that Time And Death have healing hands, and here there comes To the forgiven transgressor only pain Enough to chasten joy!" And a soft tear Trembled within her eyes, and her sweet gaze Was as the Magdalen's, the horror gone And a great radiance come. Then as I passed To upper air, I saw two figures rise Together, one a woman with a grave Fair face not all unhappy, and the robes And presence of a queen; and with her walked The fairest youth that ever maiden's dream Conceived. And as they came, the throng of ghosts, For these who were not wholly ghosts, arose, And did them homage. Not the chain of love Bound them, but such calm kinship as is bred Of long and difficult pilgrimages borne Through common perils by two souls which share A common weary exile. Nor as ghosts These showed, but rather like two lives which hung Suspended in a trance. A halo of life Played round them, and they brought a sweet brisk air Tasting of earth and heaven, like sojourners Who stayed but for awhile, and knew a swift Release await them. First the youth it was Who spake thus as they passed: "Dread Queen, once more I feel life stir within me, and my blood Run faster, while a new strange cycle turns And grows completed. Soon on the dear earth Under the lively light of fuller day, I shall revive me of my wound; and thou, Passing with me yon cold and lifeless stream, And the grim monster who will fawn on thee, Shalt issue in royal pomp, and wreathed with flowers, Upon the cheerful earth, leaving behind A deeper winter for the ghosts who dwell Within these sunless haunts; and I shall lie Once more within loved arms, and thou shalt see Thy early home, and kiss thy mother's cheek, And be a girl again. But not for long; For ere the bounteous Autumn spreads her hues Of gold and purple, a cold voice will call And bring us to these wintry lands once more, As erst so often. Blest are we, indeed, Above the rest, and yet I would I knew The careless joys of old. For in hot youth, Oh, it was sweet to greet the balmy night That was love's nurse, and feel the weary eyes Closed by soft kisses,--sweet at early dawn To wake refreshed and, scarce from loving arms Leaping, to issue forth, with winding horn, By dewy heath and brake, and taste the fair Young breath of early morning; and 'twas sweet To chase the bounding quarry all day long With my true hounds and rapid steed, and gay Companions of my youth, and with the eve To turn home laden with the spoil, and take The banquet which awaited, and sweet wine Poured out, and kisses pressed on loving lips; Circled by snowy arms. Oh, it was sweet To be alive and young! For sure it is The gods gave not quick pulses and hot blood And strength and beauty for no end, but would That we should use them wisely; and the fair, Sweet mistress of my service was, indeed, Worthy of all observance. Oh, her eyes When I lay bleeding! All day long we rode, I and my youthful peers, with horse and hound, And knew the joy of swift pursuit and toil And peril. At the last, a fierce boar turned At bay, and with his gleaming tusks o'erthrew My steed, and as I fell upon the flowers, Pierced me as with a sword. Then, as I lay, I knew the strange slow chill which, stealing, tells The young that it is death. Yet knew I not Of pain or fear, only great pity, indeed, That she should lose her love, who was so fond And gracious. But when, lifting my dim gaze, I saw her bend o'er me,--the lovely eyes Suffused with tears, and her sweet smile replaced By agonized sorrow,--for a while I stayed Life's ebbing tide, and raised my cold, white lips, With a faint smile, to hers. Then, with a kiss-- One long last kiss, we mingled, and I knew No more. But even in death, so strong is Love, I could not wholly die; and year by year, When the bright springtime comes, and the earth lives, Love opens these dread gates, and calls me forth Across the gulf. Not here, indeed, she comes, Being a goddess and in heaven, but smooths My path to the old earth, where still I know Once more the sweet lost days, and once again Blossom on that soft breast, and am again A youth, and rapt in love; and yet not all As careless as of yore; but seem to know The early spring of passion, tamed by time And suffering, to a calmer, fuller flow, Less fitful, but more strong." Then the sad Queen "Fair youth, thy lot I know, for I am old As the old earth and yet as young as is The budding spring, and I was here a Queen, When Love was not or Time, and to my arms Thou camest as a little child, to dwell Within the halls of Death, for without Death There were nor Birth nor Love, nor would Life yearn To lose itself within another life, And dying, to be born. I, too, have died For love in part, and live again through love; For in the far-off years, when Time was young, And Love unborn on earth, and Zeus in heaven Ruled, a young sovereign; I, a maiden, dwelt With dread Demeter on the lovely plains Of sunny Sicily. There, day by day, I sported with the maiden goddesses, In virgin freedom. Budding age made gay Our lightsome feet, and on the flowery slopes We wandered daily, gathering flowers to weave In careless garlands for our locks, and passed The days in innocent gladness. Thought of Love There came not to us, for as yet the earth Was virginal, nor yet had Eros come With his delicious pain. And one fair morn-- Not all the ages blot it--on the side Of Ætna we were straying. There was then Summer nor winter, springtide nor the time Of harvest, but the soft unfailing sun Shone always, and the sowing time was one With reaping; fruit and flower together sprung Upon the trees; and blade and ripened ear Together clothed the plains. There, as I strayed, Sudden a black cloud down the rugged side Of Ætna, mixed with fire and dreadful sound Of thunder, rolled around me, and I heard The maids who were my fellows turn and flee With shrieks and cries for me. But I, I knew No terror while the god o'ershadowed me, Hiding my life in his, nor when I wept My flowers all withered, and my blood ran slow Within a wintry land. Some voice there was Which said, 'Fear not. Thou shalt return and see Thy mother again, only a little while Fate wills that thou shouldst tarry, and become Queen of another world. Thou seest that all Thy flowers are faded. They shall live again On earth, as thou shalt, as thou livest now The Life of Death--for what is Death but Life Suspended as in sleep? The changeless rule Where life was constant, and the sun o'erhead, Blazed forth for ever, changes and is hidden Awhile. This region which thou seest, where all The trees are lifeless, and the flowers are dead, Is but the self-same earth on which erewhile Thou sportedst fancy free.' So, without fear I wandered on this bare land, seeing far Upon the sky the peaks of my own hills And crests of my own woods. Till, when I grew Hungered, ere yet another form I saw; Along the silent alleys journeying, And leafless groves; a fair and mystic tree Rose like a heart in shape, and 'mid its leaves One golden mystic fruit with a fair seed Hid in it. This, with childish hand, I took And ate, and straight I knew the tree was Life, And the fruit Death, and the hid seed was Love. Ah, sweet strange fruit! the which if any taste They may no longer keep their lives of old Or their own selves unchanged, but some weird change And subtle alchemy comes which can transmute The blood, and mould the spirits of gods and men In some new magical form. Not as before, Our life comes to us, though the passion cools, No, never as before. My mother came Too late to seek me. She had power to raise A life from out Death's grasp, but from the arms Of Love she might not take me, nor undo Love's past for all her strength. She came and sought With fires her daughter over land and sea, Beyond the paths of all the setting stars, In vain, and over all the earth in vain, Seeking whom love disguised. Then on all lands She cast the spell of barrenness; the wheat Was blighted in the ear, the purple grapes Blushed no more on the vines, and all the gods Were sorrowful, seeing the load of ill My rape had laid on men. Last, Zeus himself, Pitying the evil that was done, sent forth His messenger beyond the western rim To fetch me back to earth. But not the same He found me who had eaten of Love's seed, But changed into another; nor could his power Prevail to keep me wholly on the earth, Or make me maid again. The wintry life Is homelier often than the summer blaze Of happiness unclouded; so, when Spring Comes on the world, I, coming, cross with thee, Year after year, the cruel icy stream; And leave this anxious sceptre and the shades Of those in hell, or those for whom, though blest, No Spring comes, till the last great Spring which brings New heavens and new earth; and lay my head Upon my mother's bosom, and grow young, And am a girl again. A soft air breathes Across the stream and fills these barren fields With the sweet odours of the earth. I know Again the perfume of the violets Which bloom on Ætna's side. Soon we shall pass Together to our home, while round our feet The crocus flames like gold, the wind-flowers white Wave their soft petals on the breeze, and all The choir of flowers lift up their silent song To the unclouded heavens. Thou, fair boy, Shalt lie within thy love's white arms again, And I within my mother's. Sweet is Love In ceasing and renewal; nay, in these It lives and has its being. Thou couldst not keep Thy youth as now, if always on the breast Of love too late a lingerer thou hadst known Possession sate thee. Nor might I have kept My mother's heart, if I had lived to ripe And wither on the stalk. Time calls and Change Commands both men and gods, and speeds us on We know not whither; but the old earth smiles Spring after Spring, and the seed bursts again Out of its prison mould, and the dead lives Renew themselves, and rise aloft and soar And are transformed, clothing themselves with change Till the last change be done." As thus she spake, I saw a gleam of light flash from the eyes Of all the listening shades, and a great joy Thrill through the realms of Death. And then again A youthful shade I saw, a comely boy, With lip and cheek just touched with manly down, And strong limbs wearing Spring; in mien and garb A youthful chieftain, with a perfect face Of fresh young beauty, clustered curls divine, And chiselled features like a sculptured god, But warm and breathing life; only the eyes, The fair large eyes, were full of dreaming thought, And seemed to gaze beyond the world of sight, On a hid world of beauty. Him I stayed, Accosting with soft words of courtesy; And, on a bank of scentless flowers reclined, He answered thus: "Not for the garish sun I long, nor for the splendours of high noon In this dim land I languish; for of yore Full often, when the swift chase swept along Through the brisk morn, or when my comrades called To wrestling, or the foot-race, or to cleave The sunny stream, I loved to walk apart, Self-centred, sole; and when the laughing girls To some fair stripling's oaten melody Made ready for the dance, I heeded not; Nor when to the loud trumpet's blast and blare My peers rode forth to battle. For, one eve, In Latmos, after a long day in June, I stayed to rest me on a sylvan hill, Where often youth and maid were wont to meet Towards moonrise; and deep slumber fell on me Musing on Love, just as the ruddy orb Rose on the lucid night, set in a frame Of blooming myrtle and sharp tremulous plane; Deep slumber fell, and loosed my limbs in rest. Then, as the full orb poised upon the peak, There came a lovely vision of a maid, Who seemed to step as from a golden car Out of the low-hung moon. No mortal form, Such as ofttimes of yore I knew and clasped At twilight 'mid the vines at the mad feast Of Dionysus, or the fair maids cold Who streamed in white processions to the shrine Of the chaste Virgin Goddess; but a shape Richer and yet more pure. No thinnest veil Obscured her; but each exquisite limb revealed, Gleamed like a golden statue subtly wrought By a great sculptor on the architrave Of some high temple-front--only in her The form was soft and warm, and charged with life, And breathing. As I seemed to gaze on her, Nearer she drew and gazed; and as I lay Supine, as in a spell, the radiance stooped And kissed me on the lips, a chaste, sweet kiss, Which drew my spirit with it. So I slept Each night upon the hill, until the dawn Came in her silver chariot from the East, And chased my Love away. But ever thus Dissolved in love as in a heaven-sent dream, Whenever the bright circle of the moon Climbed from the hills, whether in leafy June Or harvest-tide, or when they leapt and pressed Red-thighed the spouting must, I walked apart From all, and took no thought for mortal maid, Nor nimble joys of youth; but night by night I stole, when all were sleeping, to the hill, And slumbered and was blest; until I grew Possest by love so deep, I seemed to live In slumber only, while the waking day Showed faint as any vision. So I turned Paler and paler with the months, and climbed The steep with laboured steps and difficult breath, But still I climbed. Ay, though the wintry frost Chained fast the streams and whitened all the fields, I sought my mistress through the leafless groves, And slumbered and was happy, till the dawn Returning found me stretched out, cold and stark, With life's fire nigh burnt out. Till one clear night, When the birds shivered in the pines, and all The inner heavens stood open, lo! she came, Brighter and kinder still, and kissed my eyes And half-closed lips, and drew my soul through them, And in one precious ecstasy dissolved My life. And thenceforth, ever on the hill I lie unseen of man; a cold, white form, Still young, through all the ages; but my soul, Clothed in this thin presentment of old days, Walks this dim land, where never moonrise comes, Nor day-break, but a twilight waiting-time, No more; and, ah! how weary! Yet I judge My lot a higher far than his who spends His youth on swift hot pleasure, quickly past; Or theirs, my equals', who through long calm years Grew sleek in dull content of wedded lives And fair-grown offspring. Many a day for them, While I was wandering here, and my bones bleached Upon the rocks, the sweet autumnal sun Beamed, and the grapes grew purple. Many a day They heaped up gold, they knelt at festivals, They waxed in high report and fame of men, They gave their girls in marriage; while for me Upon the untrodden peaks, the cold, grey morn, The snows, the rains, the winds, the untempered blaze, Beat year by year, until I turned to stone, And the great eagles shrieked at me, and wheeled Affrighted. Yet I judge it better indeed To seek in life, as now I know I sought, Some fair impossible Love, which slays our life, Some fair ideal raised too high for man; And failing to grow mad, and cease to be, Than to decline, as they do who have found Broad-paunched content and weal and happiness: And so an end. For one day, as I know, The high aim unfulfilled fulfils itself; The deep, unsatisfied thirst is satisfied; And through this twilight, broken suddenly, The inmost heaven, the lucent stars of God, The Moon of Love, the Sun of Life; and I, I who pine here--I on the Latmian hill Shall soar aloft and find them." With the word, There beamed a shaft of dawn athwart the skies, And straight the sentinel thrush within the yew Sang out reveillé to the hosts of day, Soldierly; and the pomp and rush of life Began once more, and left me there alone Amid the awaking world. Nay, not alone. One fair shade lingered in the fuller day, The last to come, when now my dream had grown Half mixed with waking thoughts, as grows a dream In summer mornings when the broader light Dazzles the sleeper's eyes; and is most fair Of all and best remembered, and becomes Part of our waking life, when older dreams Grow fainter, and are fled. So this remained The fairest of the visions that I knew, Most precious and most dear. The increasing light Shone through her, finer than the thinnest shade, And yet most full of beauty; golden wings, From her fair shoulders springing, seemed to lift Her stainless feet from the cold ground and snatch Their wearer into air; and in her eyes Was such fair glance as comes from virgin love, Long chastened and triumphant. Every trace Of earth had vanished from her, and she showed As one who walks a saint already in life, Virgin or mother. Immortality Breathed from those radiant eyes which yet had passed Between the gates of death. I seemed to hear The Soul of mortals speaking: "I was born Of a great race and mighty, and was grown Fair, as they said, and good, and kept a life Pure from all stain of passion. Love I knew not, Who was absorbed in duty; and the Mother Of gods and men, seeing my life more calm Than human, hating my impassive heart, Sent down her perfect son in wrath to earth, And bade him break me. But when Eros came, It did repent him of the task, for Love Is kin to Duty. And within my life I knew miraculous change, and a soft flame Wherefrom the snows of Duty flushed to rose, And the chill icy flow of mind was turned To a warm stream of passion. Long I lived Not knowing what had been, nor recognized A Presence walking with me through my life, As if by night, his face and form concealed: A gracious voice alone, which none but I Might hear, sustained me, and its name was Love. Not as the earthly loves which throb and flush Round earthly shrines was mine, but a pure spirit, Lovelier than all embodied love, more pure And wonderful; but never on his eyes I looked, which still were hidden, and I knew not The fashion of his nature; for by night, When visual eyes are blind, but the soul sees, Came he, and bade me seek not to enquire Or whence he came or wherefore. Nor knew I His name. And always ere the coming day, As if he were the Sun-god, lingering With some too well-loved maiden, he would rise And vanish until eve. But all my being Thrilled with my fair unearthly visitant To higher duty and more glorious meed Of action than of old, for it was Love That came to me, who might not know his name. Thus, ever rapt by dreams divine, I knew The scorn that comes from weaker souls, which miss, Being too low of nature, the great joy Revealed to others higher; nay, my sisters, Who being of one blood with me, made choice To tread the lower ways of daily life, Grew jealous of me, bidding me take heed Lest haply 'twas some monstrous fiend I loved, Such as in fable ofttimes sought and won The innocent hearts of maids. Long time I held My love too dear for doubt, who was so sweet And lovable. But at the last the sneers, The mystery which hid him, the swift flight Before the coming dawn, the shape concealed, The curious girlish heart, these worked on me With an unsatisfied thirst. Not his own words: 'Dear, I am with thee only while I keep My visage hidden; and if thou once shouldst see My face, I must forsake thee: the high gods Link Love with Faith, and he withdraws himself From the full gaze of Knowledge'--not even these Could cure me of my longing, or the fear Those mocking voices worked; who fain would learn The worst that might befall. And one sad night, Just as the day leapt from the hills and brought The hour when he should go: with tremulous hands, Lighting my midnight lamp in fear, I stood Long time uncertain, and at length turned round And gazed upon my love. He lay asleep, And oh, how fair he was! The flickering light Fell on the fairest of the gods, stretched out In happy slumber. Looking on his locks Of gold, and faultless face and smile, and limbs Made perfect, a great joy and trembling took me Who was most blest of women, and in awe And fear I stooped to kiss him. One warm drop-- From the full lamp within my trembling hand, Or a glad tear from my too happy eyes, Fell on his shoulder. Then the god unclosed His lovely eyes, and with great pity spake: 'Farewell! There is no Love except with Faith, And thine is dead! Farewell! I come no more.' And straightway from the hills the full red sun Leapt up, and as I clasped my love again, The lovely vision faded from his place, And came no more. Then I, with breaking heart, Knowing my life laid waste by my own hand, Went forth and would have sought to hide my life Within the stream of Death; but Death came not To aid me who not yet was meet for Death. Then finding that Love came not back to me, I thought that in the temples of the gods Haply he dwelt, and so from fane to fane I wandered over earth, and knelt in each, Enquiring for my Love; and I would ask The priests and worshippers, 'Is this Love's shrine? Sirs, have you seen the god?' But never at all I found him. For some answered, 'This is called The Shrine of Knowledge;' and another, 'This, The Shrine of Beauty;' and another, 'Strength;' And yet another, 'Youth.' And I would kneel And say a prayer to my Love, and rise And seek another. Long, o'er land and sea, I wandered, till I was not young or fair, Grown wretched, seeking my lost Love; and last, Came to the smiling, hateful shrine where ruled The queen of earthly love and all delight, Cypris, but knelt not there, but asked of one Who seemed her priest, if Eros dwelt with her. Then to the subtle-smiling goddess' self They led me. She with hatred in her eyes: 'What! thou to seek for Love, who art grown thin And pale with watching! He is not for thee. What Love is left for such? Thou didst despise Love, and didst dwell apart. Love sits within The young maid's eyes, making them beautiful. Love is for youth, and joy, and happiness; And not for withered lives. Ho! bind her fast. Take her and set her to the vilest tasks, And bend her pride by solitude and tears, Who will not kneel to me, but dares to seek A disembodied love. My son has gone And left thee for thy fault, and thou shalt know The misery of my thralls.' Then in her house They bound me to hard tasks and vile, and kept My life from honour, chained among her slaves And lowest ministers, taking despite And injury for food, and set to bind Their wounds whom she had tortured, and to feed The pitiful lives which in her prisons pent Languished in hopeless pain. There is no sight Of suffering but I saw it, and was set To succour it; and all my woman's heart Was torn with the ineffable miseries Which love and life have worked; and dwelt long time In groanings and in tears. And then, oh joy! Oh miracle! once more at length again I felt Love's arms around me, and the kiss Of Love upon my lips, and in the chill Of deepest prison cells, 'mid vilest tasks, The glow of his sweet breath, and the warm touch Of his invisible hand, and his sweet voice, Ay, sweeter than of old, and tenderer, Speak to me, pierce me, hold me, fold me round With arms Divine, till all the sordid earth Was hued like heaven, and Life's dull prison-house Turned to a golden palace, and those low tasks Grew to be higher works and nobler gains Than any gains of knowledge, and at last He whispered softly, 'Dear, unclose thine eyes. Thou mayst look on me now. I go no more, But am thine own for ever.' Then with wings Of gold we soared, I looking in his eyes, Over yon dark broad river, and this dim land, Scarce for an instant staying till we reached The inmost courts of heaven. But sometimes still I come here for a little, and speak a word Of peace to those who wait. The slow wheel turns, The cycles round themselves and grow complete, The world's year whitens to the harvest-tide, And one word only am I sent to say To those dear souls, who wait here, or who now Breathe earthly air--one universal word To all things living, and the word is 'Love.'" Then soared she visibly before my gaze, And the heavens took her, and I knew my eyes Had seen the soul of man, the deathless soul, Defeated, struggling, purified, and blest. Then all the choir of happy waiting shades, Heroes and queens, fair maidens and brave youths, Swept by me, rhythmic, slow, as if they trod Some unheard measure, passing where I stood In fair procession, each with a faint smile Upon the lip, signing "Farewell, oh shade! It shall be well with thee, as 'tis with us, If only thou art true. The world of Life, The world of Death, are but opposing sides Of one great orb, and the Light shines on both. Oh, happy happy shade! Farewell! Farewell!" And so they passed away. END OF BOOK II. BOOK III. OLYMPUS. But I, my gaze Following the soaring soul which now was lost In the awakening skies, floated with her, As in a trance, beyond the golden gates Which separate Earth from Heaven; and to my thought Gladdened by that broad effluence of light, This old earth seemed transfigured, and the fields, So dim and bare, grew green and clothed themselves With lustrous hues. A fine ethereal air Played round me as I mused, and filled the soul With an ineffable content. What need Of words to tell of things unreached by words? Or seek to engrave upon the treacherous thought The fair and fugitive fancies of a dream, Which vanish ere we fix them? But methinks He knows the scene, who knows the one fair day, One only and no more, which year by year In springtime comes, when lingering winter flies, And lo! the trees blossom in white and pink. And golden clusters, and the glades are filled With delicate primrose and deep odorous beds Of violets, and on the tufted meads With kingcups starred, and cowslip bells, and blue Sweet hyacinths, and frail anemones, The broad West wind breathes softly, and the air Is tremulous with the lark, and thro' the woods The soft full-throated thrushes all day long Flood the green dells with joy, and thro' the dry Brown fields the sower strides, sowing his seed, And all is life and song. Or he who first, Whether in fair free boyhood, when the world Is his to choose, or when his fuller life Beats to another life, or afterwards, Keeping his youth within his children's eyes, Looks on the snow-clad everlasting hills, And marks the sunset smite them, and is glad Of the beautiful fair world. A springtide land It seemed, where East winds came not. Sweetest song Was everywhere, by glade or sunny plain; And thro' the golden valleys winding streams Rippled in glancing silver, and above, The blue hills rose, and over all a peak, White, awful, with a constant fleece of cloud Veiling its summit, towered. Unfailing Day Lighted it, for no turn of dawn and eve Came there, nor changing seasons, but a broad Fixed joy of Being, undisturbed by Time. There, in a happy glade shut in by groves Of laurel and sweet myrtle, on a green And flower-lit lawn, I seemed to see the ghosts Of the old gods. Upon the gentle slope Of a fair hill, a joyous company, The Immortals lay. Hard by, a murmurous stream Fell through the flowers; below them, space on space, Laughed the immeasurable plains; beyond, The mystic mountain soared. Height after height Of bare rock ledges left the climbing pines, And reared their giddy, shining terraces Into the ethereal air. Above, the snows Of the white summit cleft the fleece of cloud Which always clothed it round. Ah, fail-and sweet, Yet with a ghostly fairness, fine and thin, Those godlike Presences. Not dreams indeed, But something dream-like, were they. Blessed Shades Heroic and Divine, as when, in days When Man was young, and Time, the vivid thought Translated into Form the unattained Impossible Beauty of men's dreams, and fixed The Loveliness in marble. As with awe Following my spotless guide, I stood apart, Not daring to draw near; a shining form Rose from the throng, and floated, light as air, To where I trembled. And I knew the face And form of Artemis, the fair, the pure, The undefiled. A crescent silvery moon Shone thro' her locks, and by her side she bore A quiver of golden darts. At sight of whom I felt a sudden chill, like his who once Looked upon her and died; yet could not fear, Seeing how fair she was. Her sweet voice rang Clear as a bird's: "Mortal, what fate hath brought Thee hither, uncleansed by death? How canst thou breathe Immortal air, being mortal? Yet fear not, Since thou art come. For we too are of earth Whom here thou seest: there were not a heaven Were there no earth, nor gods, had men not been, But each the complement of each and grown The other's creature, is and has its being, A double essence, Human and Divine. So that the God is hidden in the man, And something Human bounds and forms the God; Which else had shown too great and undefined For mortal sight, and having no human eye To see it, were unknown. But we who bore Sway of old time, we were but attributes [3]Of the great God who is all Things that be-- The Pillar of the Earth and starry Sky, The Depth of the great Deep; the Sun, the Moon, The Word which Makes; the All-compelling Love-- For all Things lie within His Infinite Form." Even as she spake, a throng of heavenly forms Floated around me, filling all my soul With fair unearthly beauty, and the air With such ambrosial perfume as is born. When morning bursts upon a tropic sea, From boundless wastes of flowers; and as I knelt In rapture, lo! the same clear voice again From out the throng of gods: "Those whom thou seest Were even as I, embodiments of Him Who is the Centre of all Life: myself The Maiden-Queen of Purity; and Strength, Divine when unabused; Love too, the Spring And Cause of Things; and Knowledge, which lays bare Their secret; and calm Duty, Queen of all, And Motherhood in one; and Youth, which bears, Beauty of Form and Life and Light, and breathes The breath of Inspiration; and the Soul, The particle of God, sent down to man, Which doth in turn reveal the world and God. Wherefore it is men called on Artemis, The refuge of young souls; for still in age They keep some dim reflection uneffaced Of a Diviner Purity than comes To the spring days of youth, when all the world Smiles, and the rapid blood thro' the young veins Courses, and all is glad; yet knowing too That innocence is young--before the soil And smirch of sadder knowledge, settling on it, Sully its primal whiteness. So they knelt At my white shrines, the eager vigorous youths, To whom life's road showed like a dewy field In early summer dawns, when to the sound Of youth's clear voice, and to the cheerful rush Of the tumultuous feet and clamorous tongues Careering onwards, fair and dappled fawns, Strange birds with jewelled plumes, fierce spotted pards, Rise in the joyous chase, to be caught and bound By the young conqueror; nor yet the charm Of sensual ease allures. And they knelt too, The pure sweet maidens fair and fancy-free, Whose innocent virgin hearts shrank from the touch Of passion as from wrong--sweet moonlit lives Which fade, and pale, and vanish, in the glare Of Love's hot noontide: these came robed in white, With holy hymns and soaring liturgies: And so men fabled me, a huntress now, Borne thro' the flying woodlands, fair and free; And now the pale cold Moon, Light without warmth, Zeal without touch of passion, heavenly love For human, and the altar for the home. But oh, how sweet it was to take the love And awe of my young worshippers; to watch The pure young gaze and hear the pure young voice Mount in the hymn, or see the gay troop come With the first dawn of day, brushing the dew From the unpolluted fields, and wake to song The slumbering birds; strong in their innocence! I did not envy any goddess of all The Olympian company her votaries! Ah, happy days of old which now are gone! A memory and a dream! for now on earth I rule no longer o'er young willing hearts In voluntary fealty, which should cease When Love, with fiery accents calling, woke The slumbering soul; as now it should for those Who kneel before the purer, sadder shrine Which has replaced my own. But ah! too oft, Not always, but too often, shut from life Within pale life-long cloisters and the bars Of deadly convent prisons, year by year, Age after age, the white souls fade and pine Which simulate the joyous service free Of those young worshippers. I would that I Might loose the captives' chain; or Herakles, Who was a mortal once." But he who stood Colossal at my side: "I toil no more On earth, nor wield again the mighty strength Which Zeus once gave me for the cure of ill. I have run my race; I have done my work; I rest For ever from the toilsome days I gave To the suffering race of men. And yet, indeed, Methinks they suffer still. Tyrannous growths And monstrous vex them still. Pestilence lurks And sweeps them down. Treacheries come, and wars, And slay them still. Vaulting ambition leaps And falls in bloodshed still. But I am here At rest, and no man kneels to me, or keeps Reverence for strength mighty yet unabused-- Strength which is Power, God's choicest gift, more rare And precious than all Beauty, or the charm Of Wisdom, since it is the instrument Thro' which all Nature works. For now the earth Is full of meekness, and a new God rules, Teaching strange precepts of humility And mercy and forgiveness. Yet I trow There is no lack of bloodshed and deceit And groanings, and the tyrant works his wrong Even as of old; but now there is no arm Like mine, made strong by Zeus, to beat him down, Him and his wrong together. Yet I know I am not all discrowned. The strong brave souls, The manly tender hearts, whom tale of wrong To woman or child, to all weak things and small, Fires like a blow; calling the righteous flush Of anger to the brow; knotting the cords Of muscle on the arm; with one desire To hew the spoiler down, and make an end, And go their way for others; making light Of toil and pain, and too laborious days, And peril; beat unchanged, albeit they serve A Lord of meekness. For the world still needs Its champion as of old, and finds him still. Not always now with mighty sinews and thews Like mine, though still these profit, but keen brain And voice to move men's souls to love the right And hate the wrong; even tho' the bodily form Be weak, of giant strength, strong to assail The hydra heads of Evil, and to slay The monsters that now waste them: Ignorance, Self-seeking, coward fears, the hate of Man, Disguised as love of God. These there are still With task as hard as mine. For what was it To strive with bodily ills, and do great deeds Of daring and of strength, and bear the crown, To his who wages lifelong, doubtful strife With an impalpable foe; conquering indeed, But, ere he hears the pæan or sees the pomp Laid low in the arms of Death? And tho' men cease To worship at my shrine, yet not the less I hold, it is the toils I knew, the pains I bore for others, which have kept the heart Of manhood undefiled, and nerved the arm Of sacrifice, and made the martyr strong To do and bear, and taught the race of men How godlike 'tis to suffer thro' life, and die At last for others' good!" The strong god ceased, And stood a little, musing; blest indeed, But bearing, as it seemed, some faintest trace Of earthly struggle still, not the gay ease Of the elder heaven-born gods. And then there came Beauty and Joy in one, bearing the form Of woman. How to reach with halting words That infinite Perfection? All have known The breathing marbles which the Greek has left Who saw her near, and strove to fix her charms, And exquisitely failed; or those fair forms The Painter offered at a later shrine, And failed. Nay, what are words?--he knows it well Who loves, or who has loved. She with a smile Playing around her rosy lips; as plays The sunbeam on a stream: "Shall I complain Men kneel to me no longer, taking to them Some graver, sterner worship; grown too wise For fleeting joys of Love? Nay, Love is Youth, And still the world is young. Still shall I reign Within the hearts of men, while Time shall last And Life renews itself. All Life that is, From the weak things of earth or sea or air, Which creep or float for an hour; to godlike man-- All know me and are mine. I am the source And mother of all, both gods and men; the spring Of Force and Joy, which, penetrating all Within the hidden depths of the Unknown, Sets the blind seed of Being, and from the bond Of incomplete and dual Essences Evolves the harmony which is Life. The world Were dead without my rays, who am the Light Which vivifies the world. Nay, but for me, The universal order which attracts Sphere unto sphere, and keeps them in their paths For ever, were no more. All things are bound Within my golden chain, whose name is Love. And if there be, indeed, some sterner souls Or sunk in too much learning, or hedged round By care and greed, or haply too much rapt By pale ascetic fervours, to delight To kneel to me, the universal voice Scorns them as those who, missing willingly The good that Nature offers, dwell unblest Who might be blest, but would not. Every voice Of bard in every age has hymned me. All The breathing marbles, all the heavenly hues Of painting, praise me. Even the loveless shades Of dim monastic cloisters show some gleam, Tho' faint, of me. Amid the busy throngs Of cities reign I, and o'er lonely plains, Beyond the ice-fields of the frozen North, And the warm waves of undiscovered seas. For I was born out of the sparkling foam Which lights the crest of the blue mystic wave, Stirred by the wandering breath of Life's pure dawn From a young soul's calm depths. There, without voice, Stretched on the breathing curve of a young breast, Fluttering a little, fresh from the great deep Of life, and creamy as the opening rose, Naked I lie, naked yet unashamed, While youth's warm tide steals round me with a kiss, And floods each limb with fairness. Shame I know not-- Shame is for wrong, and not for innocence-- The veil which Error grasps to hide itself From the awful Eye. But I, I lie unveiled And unashamed--the livelong day I lie, The warm wave murmuring to me; and, all night, Hidden in the moonlit caves of happy Sleep, I dream until the morning and am glad. Why should I seek to clothe myself, and hide The treasure of my Beauty? Shame may wait On those for whom 'twas given. The sties of sense Are none of mine; the brutish, loveless wrong, The venal charm, the simulated flush Of fleshly passion, they are none of mine, Only corruptions of me. Yet I know The counterfeit the stronger, since gross souls And brutish sway the earth; and yet I hold That sense itself is sacred, and I deem 'Twere better to grow soft and sink in sense Than gloat o'er blood and wrong. My kingdom is Over infinite grades of being. All breathing things, From the least crawling insect to the brute, From brute to man, confess me. Yet in man I find my worthiest worship. Where man is, A youth and a maid, a youth and a maid, nought else Is wanting for my temple. Every clime Kneels to me--the long breaker swells and falls Under the palms, mixed with the merry noise Of savage bridals, and the straight brown limbs Know me, and over all the endless plains I reign, and by the tents on the hot sand And sea-girt isles am queen, and on the side Of silent mountains, where the white cots gleam Upon the green hill pastures, and no sound But the thunder of the avalanche is borne To the listening rocks around; and in fair lands Where all is peace; where thro' the happy hush Of tranquil summer evenings, 'mid the corn, Or thro' cool arches of the gadding vines, The lovers stray together hand in hand, Hymning my praise; and by the stately streets Of echoing cities--over all the earth, Palace and cot, mountain and plain and sea, The burning South, the icy North, the old And immemorial East, the unbounded West, No new god comes to spoil me utterly-- All worship and are mine!" With a sweet smile Upon her rosy mouth, the goddess ceased; And when she spake no more, the silence weighed As heavy on my soul as when it takes Some gracious melody, and leaves the ear Unsatisfied and longing, till the fount Of sweetness springs again. But while I stood Expectant, lo! a fair pale form drew near With front severe, and wide blue eyes which bore Mild wisdom in their gaze. Great purity Shone from her--not the young-eyed innocence Of her whom first I saw, but that which comes From wider knowledge, which restrains the tide Of passionate youth, and leads the musing soul By the calm deeps of Wisdom. And I knew My eyes had seen the fair, the virgin Queen, Who once within her shining Parthenon Beheld the sages kneel. She with clear voice And coldly sweet, yet with a softness too, As doth befit a virgin: "She does right To boast her sway, my sister, seeing indeed That all things are as by a double law, And from a double root the tree of Life Springs up to the face of heaven. Body and Soul, Matter and Spirit, lower joys of Sense And higher joys of Thought, I know that both Build up the shrine of Being. The brute sense Leaves man a brute; but, winged with soaring thought Mounts to high heaven. The unembodied spirit, Dwelling alone, unmated, void of sense, Is impotent. And yet I hold there is, Far off, but not too far for mortal reach, A calmer height, where, nearer to the stars, Thought sits alone and gazes with rapt gaze, A large-eyed maiden in a robe of white. Who brings the light of Knowledge down, and draws To her pontifical eyes a bridge of gold, Which spans from earth to heaven. For what were life, If things of sense were all, for those large souls And high, which grudging Nature has shut fast Within unlovely forms, or those from whom The circuit of the rapid gliding years Steals the brief gift of beauty? Shall we hold, With idle singers, all the treasure of hope Is lost with youth--swift-fleeting, treacherous youth, Which fades and flies before the ripening brain Crowns life with Wisdom's crown? Nay, even in youth, Is it not more to walk upon the heights Alone--the cold free heights--and mark the vale Lie breathless in the glare, or hidden and blurred By cloud and storm; or pestilence and war Creep on with blood and death; while the soul dwells Apart upon the peaks, outfronts the sun As the eagle does, and takes the coming dawn While all the vale is dark, and knows the springs Of tiny rivulets hurrying from the snows, Which soon shall swell to vast resistless floods, And feed the Oceans which divide the World? Oh, ecstasy! oh, wonder! oh, delight! Which neither the slow-withering wear of Time, That takes all else--the smooth and rounded cheek Of youth; the lightsome step; the warm young heart Which beats for love or friend; the treasure of hope Immeasurable; the quick-coursing blood Which makes it joy to be,--ay, takes them all And leaves us naught--nor yet satiety Born of too full possession, takes or mars! Oh, fair delight of learning! which grows great And stronger and more keen, for slower limbs, And dimmer eyes and loneliness, and loss Of lower good--wealth, friendship, ay, and Love-- When the swift soul, turning its weary gaze From the old vanished joys, projects itself Into the void and floats in empty space, Striving to reach the mystic source of Things, The secrets of the earth and sea and air, The Law that holds the process of the suns, The awful depths of Mind and Thought; the prime Unfathomable mystery of God! Is there, then, any who holds my worship cold And lifeless? Nay, but 'tis the light which cheers The waning life! Love thou thy love, brave youth! Cleave to thy love, fair maid! it is the Law Which dominates the world, that bids ye use Your nature; but, when now the fuller tide Slackens a little, turn your calmer eyes To the fair page of Knowledge. It is power I give, and power is precious. It is strength To live four-square, careless of outward shows, And self-sufficing. It is clearer sight To know the rule of life, the Eternal scheme; And, knowing it, to do and not to err, And, doing, to be blest." The calm voice soared Higher and higher to the close; the cold Clear accents, fired as by a hidden fire, Glowed into life and tenderness, and throbbed As with some spiritual ecstasy Sweeter than that of Love. But as they died, I heard an ampler voice; and looking, marked A fair and gracious form. She seemed a Queen Who ruled o'er gods and men; the majesty Of perfect womanhood. No opening bud Of beauty, but the full consummate flower Was hers; and from her mild large eyes looked forth Gentle command, and motherhood, and home, And pure affection. Awe and reverence O'erspread me, as I knew my eyes had looked On sovereign Heré, mother of the gods. She, with clear, rounded utterance, sweet and calm "I know Love's fruit is good and fair to see And taste, if any gain it, and I know How brief Life's Passion-tide, which when it ends May change to thirst for Knowledge, and I know How fair the realm of Mind, wherein the soul Thirsting to know, wings its impetuous way Beyond the bounds of Thought; and yet I hold There is a higher bliss than these, which fits A mortal life, compact of Body and Soul, And therefore double-natured--a calm path Which lies before the feet, thro' common ways And undistinguished crowds of toiling men, And yet is hard to tread, tho' seeming smooth, And yet, tho' level, earns a worthier crown. For Knowledge is a steep which few may climb, While Duty is a path which all may tread. And if the Soul of Life and Thought be this, How best to speed the mighty scheme, which still Fares onward day by day--the Life of the World, Which is the sum of petty lives, that live And die so this may live--how then shall each Of that great multitude of faithful souls Who walk not on the heights, fulfil himself, But by the duteous Life which looks not forth Beyond its narrow sphere, and finds its work, And works it out; content, this done, to fall And perish, if Fate will, so the great Scheme Goes onward? Wherefore am I Queen in Heaven And Earth, whose realm is Duty, bearing rule More constant and more wide than those whose words Thou heardest last. Mine are the striving souls Of fathers toiling day by day obscure And unrewarded, save by their own hearts, Mid wranglings of the Forum or the mart; Who long for joys of Thought, and yet must toil Unmurmuring thro' dull lives from youth to age; Who haply might have worn instead the crown Of Honour and of Fame: mine the fair mothers Who, for the love of children and of home, When passion dies, expend their toilful years In loving labour sweetened by the sense Of Duty: mine the statesman who toils on Thro' vigilant nights and days, guiding his State. Yet finds no gratitude; and those white souls Who give themselves for others all their years In trivial tasks of Pity. The fine growths Of Man and Time are mine, and spend themselves For me and for the mystical End which lies Beyond their gaze and mine, and yet is good, Tho' hidden from men and gods. For as the flower Of the tiger-lily bright with varied hues Is for a day, then fades and leaves behind Fairness nor fruit, while the green tiny tuft Swells to the purple of the clustering grape Or golden waves of wheat; so lives of men Which show most splendid; fade and are deceased And leave no trace; while those, unmarked, unseen, Which no man recks of, rear the stately tree Of Knowledge, not for itself sought out, but found In the dusty ways of life--a fairer growth Than springs in cloistered shades; and from the sum Of Duty, blooms sweeter and more divine The fair ideal of the Race, than comes From glittering gains of Learning. Life, full life, Full-flowered, full-fruited, reared from homely earth, Rooted in duty, and thro' long calm years Bearing its load of healthful energies; Stretching its arms on all sides; fed with dews Of cheerful sacrifice, and clouds of care, And rain of useful tears; warmed by the sun Of calm affection, till it breathes itself In perfume to the heavens--this is the prize I hold most dear, more precious than the fruit Of Knowledge or of Love." The goddess ceased As dies some gracious harmony, the child Of wedded themes which single and alone Were discords, but united breathe a sound Sweet as the sounds of heaven. And then stood forth The last of the gods I saw, the first in rank And dignity and beauty, the young god Who grows not old, the Light of Heaven and Earth, The Worker from afar, who sends the fire Of inspiration to the bard and bathes The world in hues of heaven--the golden link Between High God and Man. With a sweet voice Whose every note was sweetest melody-- The melody has fled, the words remain-- Apollo sang: "I know how fair the face Of Purity; I know the treasure of Strength; I know the charm of Love, the calmer grace Of Wisdom and of Duteous well-spent lives: And yet there is a loftier height than these. There is a Height higher than mortal thought; There is a Love warmer than mortal love; There is a Life which taketh not its hues From Earth or earthly things; and so grows pure And higher than the petty cares of men, And is a blessed life and glorified. Oh, white young souls, strain upward, upward still, Even to the heavenly source of Purity! Brave hearts, bear on and suffer! Strike for right, Strong arms, and hew down wrong! The world hath need Of all of you--the sensual wrongful world! Hath need of you, and of thee too, fair Love. Oh, lovers, cling together! the old world Is full of Hate. Sweeten it; draw in one Two separate chords of Life; and from the bond Of twin souls lost in Harmony create A Fair God dwelling with you--Love, the Lord! Waft yourselves, yearning souls, upon the stars; Sow yourselves on the wandering winds of space; Watch patient all your days, if your eyes take Some dim, cold ray of Knowledge. The dull world Hath need of you--the purblind, slothful world! Live on, brave lives, chained to the narrow round Of Duty; live, expend yourselves, and make The orb of Being wheel onward steadfastly Upon its path--the Lord of Life alone Knows to what goal of Good; work on, live on: And yet there is a higher work than yours. To have looked upon the face of the Unknown And Perfect Beauty. To have heard the voice Of Godhead in the winds and in the seas. To have known Him in the circling of the suns, And in the changeful fates and lives of men. To be fulfilled with Godhead as a cup Filled with a precious essence, till the hand On marble or on canvas falling, leaves Celestial traces, or from reed or string Draws out faint echoes of the voice Divine That bring God nearer to a faithless world. Or, higher still and fairer and more blest, To be His seer, His prophet; to be the voice Of the Ineffable Word; to be the glass Of the Ineffable Light, and bring them down To bless the earth, set in a shrine of Song. For Knowledge is a barren tree and bare, Bereft of God, and Duty but a word, And Strength but Tyranny, and Love, Desire, And Purity a folly; and the Soul, Which brings down God to Man, the Light to the world; He is the Maker, and is blest, is blest!" He ended, and I felt my soul grow faint With too much sweetness. In a mist of grace They faded, that bright company, and seemed To melt into each other and shape themselves Into new forms, and those fair goddesses Blent in a perfect woman--all the calm High motherhood of Heré, the sweet smile Of Cypris, fair Athené's earnest eyes, And the young purity of Artemis, Blent in a perfect woman; and in her arms, Fused by some cosmic interlacing curves Of Beauty into a new Innocence, A child with eyes divine, a little child, A little child--no more. And those great gods Of Power and Beauty left a heavenly form Strong not to act, but suffer; fair and meek, Not proud and eager; with soft eyes of grace, Not bold with joyous youth; and for the fire Of song, and for the happy careless life, A sorrowful pilgrimage--changed, yet the same Only Diviner far; and keeping still The Life God-lighted and the sacrifice. And when these faded wholly, at my side, Tho' hidden before by those too-radiant forms, I was aware once more of her, my guide Psyche, who had not left me, floating near On golden wings; and all the plains of heaven Were left to us, me and my soul alone. Then when my thought revived again, I said Whispering, "But Zeus I saw not, the prime Source And Sire of all the gods." And she, bent low With downcast eyes: "Nay. Thou hast seen of Him All that thine eyes can bear, in those fair forms Which are but parts of Him and are indeed Attributes of the Substance which supports The Universe of Things--the Soul of the World, The Stream which flows Eternal, from no Source Into no Sea, His Purity, His Strength, His Love, His Knowledge, His unchanging rule Of Duty, thou hast seen, only a part And not the whole, being a finite mind Too weak for infinite thought; nor, couldst thou see All of Him visible to mortal sight, Wouldst thou see all His essence, since the gods-- Glorified essences of Human mould, Who are but Zeus made visible to men-- See Him not wholly, only some thin edge And halo of His glory; nor know they What vast and unsuspected Universes Lie beyond thought, where yet He rules, like those Vast Suns we cannot see, round which our Sun Moves with his system, or those darker still Which not even thus we know, but yet exist Tho' no eye marks, nor thought itself, and lurk In the awful Depths of Space; or that which is Not orbed as yet, but indiscrete, confused, Sown thro' the void--the faintest gleam of light Which sets itself to Be. And yet is He There too, and rules, none seeing. But sometimes To this our heaven, which is so like to earth But nearer to Him, for awhile He shows Some gleam of His own brightness, and methinks It cometh soon; but thou, if thou shouldst gaze, Thy Life will rush to His--the tiny spark Absorbed in that full blaze--and what there is Of mortal fall from thee." But I: "Oh, soul, What holdeth Life more precious than to know The Giver and to die?" Then she: "Behold! Look upward and adore." And with the word, Unhasting, undelaying, gradual, sure, The floating cloud which clothed the hidden peak Rose slow in awful silence, laying bare Spire after rocky spire, snow after snow, Whiter and yet more dreadful, till at last It left the summit clear. Then with a bound, In the twinkling of an eye, in the flash of a thought, I knew an Awful Effluence of Light, Formless, Ineffable, Perfect, burst on me And flood my being round, and take my life Into itself. I saw my guide bent down Prostrate, her wings before her face; and then No more. But when I woke from my long trance Behold, it was no longer Tartarus, Nor Hades, nor Olympus, but the bare And unideal aspect of the fields Which Spring not yet had kissed--the strange old Earth So far more fabulous now than in the days When Man was young, nor yet the mystery Of Time and Fate transformed it. From the hills, The long night fled at last, the unclouded sun, The dear, fair sun, leapt upward swift, and smote My sight with rays of gold, and pierced my brain With too much light ere my entrancèd eyes Could hide themselves. And I was on the Earth Dreaming the dream of Life again, as late I dreamed the dream of Death. Another day Dawned on the race of men; another world; New heavens, and new earth. And as I went Across the lightening fields, upon a bank I saw a single snowdrop glance, and bring Promise of Spring; and keeping my old thought In the old fair Hellenic vesture dressed, I felt myself a ghost, and seemed to be Now fair Adonis hasting to the arms Of his lost love--now sad Persephone Restored to mother earth--or that high shade Orpheus, who gave up heaven to save his love, And is rewarded--or young Marsyas, Who spent his youth and life for song, and yet Was happy though in torture--or the fair And dreaming youth I saw, who still awaits, Hopeful, the unveiling heaven, when he shall see His fair ideal love. The birds sang blithe; There came a tinkling from the waking fold; And on the hillside from the cot a girl Tripped singing with her pitcher. All the sounds And thoughts which still are beautiful--Youth, Song, Dawn, Spring, Renewal--and my soul was glad Of all the freshness, and I felt again The youth and spring-tide of the world, and thought, Which feigned those fair and gracious fantasies. For every dawn that breaks brings a new world, And every budding bosom a new life; These fair tales, which we know so beautiful, Show only finer than our lives to-day Because their voice was clearer, and they found A sacred bard to sing them. We are pent, Who sing to-day, by all the garnered wealth Of ages of past song. We have no more The world to choose from, who, where'er we turn, Tread through old thoughts and fair. Yet must we sing-- We have no choice; and if more hard the toil In noon, when all is clear, than in the fresh White mists of early morn, yet do we find Achievement its own guerdon, and at last The rounder song of manhood grows more sweet Than the high note of youth. For Age, long Age! Nought else divides us from the fresh young days Which men call ancient; seeing that we in turn Shall one day be Time's ancients, and inspire The wiser, higher race, which yet shall sing Because to sing is human, and high thought Grows rhythmic ere its close. Nought else there is But that weird beat of Time, which doth disjoin To-day from Hellas. How should any hold Those precious scriptures only old-world tales Of strange impossible torments and false gods; Of men and monsters in some brainless dream, Coherent, yet unmeaning, linked together By some false skein of song? Nay! evermore, All things and thoughts, both new and old, are writ Upon the unchanging human heart and soul. Has Passion still no prisoners? Pine there now No lives which fierce Love, sinking into Lust, Has drowned at last in tears and blood--plunged down To the lowest depths of Hell? Have not strong Will And high Ambition rotted into Greed And Wrong, for any, as of old, and whelmed The struggling soul in ruin? Hell lies near Around us as does Heaven, and in the World, Which is our Hades, still the chequered souls Compact of good and ill--not all accurst Nor altogether blest--a few brief years Travel the little journey of their lives, They know not to what end. The weary woman Sunk deep in ease and sated with her life, Much loved and yet unloving, pines to-day As Helen; still the poet strives and sings. And hears Apollo's music, and grows dumb, And suffers, yet is happy; still the young Fond dreamer seeks his high ideal love, And finds her name is Death; still doth the fair And innocent life, bound naked to the rock, Redeem the race; still the gay tempter goes And leaves his victim, stone; still doth pain bind Men's souls in closer links of lovingness, Than Death itself can sever; still the sight Of too great beauty blinds us, and we lose The sense of earthly splendours, gaining Heaven. And still the skies are opened as of old To the entrancèd gaze, ay, nearer far And brighter than of yore; and Might is there, And Infinite Purity is there, and high Eternal Wisdom, and the calm clear face Of Duty, and a higher, stronger Love And Light in one, and a new, reverend Name, Greater than any and combining all; And over all, veiled with a veil of cloud, God set far off, too bright for mortal eyes. And always, always, with each soul that comes And goes, comes that fair form which was my guide, Hovering, with golden wings and eyes divine, Above the bed of birth, the bed of death, Still breathing heavenly airs of deathless love. For while a youth is lost in soaring thought, And while a maid grows sweet and beautiful, And while a spring-tide coming lights the earth, And while a child, and while a flower is born, And while one wrong cries for redress and finds A soul to answer, still the world is young! THE END. Footnotes: [1] Euripides, "Hippolytus," lines 70-78. [2] Virgil, "Æneid," vi. 740. [3] See the Orphic Hymns. PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES. [Transcriber's Notes: This text is hemistichia, in that the end of one stanza is vertically aligned with the start of the next stanza. Inconsistent Hyphenation and text retained.] 
16338	----	Transcribed from the 1899 George Allen edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk THE HOMERIC HYMNS A NEW PROSE TRANSLATION AND ESSAYS, LITERARY AND MYTHOLOGICAL, by Andrew Lang [Bust of Athene. Forming a vase; found at Athens now in the British Museum. (Fifth Century B.C.): langi.jpg] DEDICATION To Henry Butcher A Little Token of A Long Friendship PREFACE To translate the Hymns usually called "Homeric" had long been my wish, and, at the Publisher's suggestion, I undertook the work. Though not in partnership, on this occasion, with my friend, Mr. Henry Butcher (Professor of Greek in the University of Edinburgh), I have been fortunate in receiving his kind assistance in correcting the proofs of the longer and most of the minor Hymns. Mr. Burnet, Professor of Greek in the University of St. Andrews, has also most generously read the proofs of the translation. It is, of course, to be understood that these scholars are not responsible for the slips which may have wandered into my version, the work of one whose Greek has long "rusted in disuse." Indeed I must confess that the rendering "Etin" for [Greek text] is retained in spite of Mr. Butcher, who is also not wholly satisfied with "gledes of light," and with "shieling" for a pastoral summer station in the hills. But I know no word for it in English south of Tweed. Mr. A. S. Murray, the Head of the Classical Department in the British Museum, has also been good enough to read, and suggest corrections in the preliminary Essays; while Mr. Cecil Smith, of the British Museum, has obligingly aided in selecting the works of art here reproduced. The text of the Hymns is well known to be corrupt, in places impossible, and much mended by conjecture. I have usually followed Gemoll (_Die Homerischen Hymnen_, Leipzig, 1886), but have sometimes preferred a MS. reading, or emendations by Mr. Tyrrell, by Mr. Verral, or the admirable suggestions of Mr. Allen. My chief object has been to find, in cases of doubt, the phrases least unworthy of the poets. Too often it is impossible to be certain as to what they really wrote. I have had beside me the excellent prose translation by Mr. John Edgar (Thin, Edinburgh, 1891). As is inevitable, we do not always agree in the sense of certain phrases, but I am far from claiming superiority for my own attempts. The method employed in the Essays, the anthropological method of interpreting beliefs and rites, is still, of course, on its trial. What can best be said as to its infirmities, and the dangers of its abuse, and of system-making in the present state of the evidence, will be found in Sir Alfred Lyall's "Asiatic Studies," vol. ii. chaps. iii. and iv. Readers inclined to pursue the subject should read Mr. L. R. Farnell's "Cults of the Greek States" (Clarendon Press, 1896), Mr. J. G. Frazer's "Golden Bough," his "Pausanias," and Mr. Hartland's work on "The Myth of Perseus." These books, it must be observed, are by no means always in agreement with my own provisional theories. ESSAYS INTRODUCTORY THE SO-CALLED HOMERIC HYMNS "The existing collection of the Hymns is of unknown editorship, unknown date, and unknown purpose," says Baumeister. Why any man should have collected the little preludes of five or six lines in length, and of purely conventional character, while he did not copy out the longer poems to which they probably served as preludes, is a mystery. The celebrated Wolf, who opened the path which leads modern Homerologists to such an extraordinary number of divergent theories, thought rightly that the great Alexandrian critics before the Christian Era, did not recognise the Hymns as "Homeric." They did not employ the Hymns as illustrations of Homeric problems; though it is certain that they knew the Hymns, for one collection did exist in the third century B.C. {4} Diodorus and Pausanias, later, also cite "the poet in the Hymns," "Homer in the Hymns"; and the pseudo-Herodotus ascribes the Hymns to Homer in his Life of that author. Thucydides, in the Periclean age, regards Homer as the blind Chian minstrel who composed the Hymn to the Delian Apollo: a good proof of the relative antiquity of that piece, but not evidence, of course, that our whole collection was then regarded as Homeric. Baumeister agrees with Wolf that the brief Hymns were recited by rhapsodists as preludes to the recitation of Homeric or other cantos. Thus, in Hymn xxxi. 18, the poet says that he is going on to chant "the renowns of men half divine." Other preludes end with a prayer to the God for luck in the competition of reciters. This, then, is the plausible explanation of most of the brief Hymns--they were preludes to epic recitations--but the question as to the long narrative Hymns with which the collection opens is different. These were themselves rhapsodies recited at Delphi, at Delos, perhaps in Cyprus (the long Hymn to Aphrodite), in Athens (as the Hymn to Pan, who was friendly in the Persian invasion), and so forth. That the Pisistratidae organised Homeric recitations at Athens is certain enough, and Baumeister suspects, in xiv., xxiii., xxx., xxxi., xxxii., the hand of Onomacritus, the forger of Oracles, that strange accomplice of the Pisistratidae. The Hymn to Aphrodite is just such a lay as the Phaeacian minstrel sang at the feast of Alcinous, in the hearing of Odysseus. Finally Baumeister supposes our collection not to have been made by learned editors, like Aristarchus and Zenodotus, but committed confusedly from memory to papyrus by some amateur. The conventional attribution of the Hymns to Homer, in spite of linguistic objections, and of many allusions to things unknown or unfamiliar in the Epics, is merely the result of the tendency to set down "masterless" compositions to a well-known name. Anything of epic characteristics was allotted to the master of Epic. In the same way an unfathered joke of Lockhart's was attributed to Sydney Smith, and the process is constantly illustrated in daily conversation. The word [Greek text], hymn, had not originally a religious sense: it merely meant a lay. Nobody calls the Theocritean idylls on Heracles and the Dioscuri "hymns," but they are quite as much "hymns" (in our sense) as the "hymn" on Aphrodite, or on Hermes. To the English reader familiar with the Iliad and Odyssey the Hymns must appear disappointing, if he come to them with an expectation of discovering merits like those of the immortal epics. He will not find that they stand to the Iliad as Milton's "Ode to the Nativity" stands to "Paradise Lost." There is in the Hymns, in fact, no scope for the epic knowledge of human nature in every mood and aspect. We are not so much interested in the Homeric Gods as in the Homeric mortals, yet the Hymns are chiefly concerned not with men, but with Gods and their mythical adventures. However, the interest of the Hymn to Demeter is perfectly human, for the Goddess is in sorrow, and is mingling with men. The Hymn to Aphrodite, too, is Homeric in its grace, and charm, and divine sense of human limitations, of old age that comes on the fairest, as Tithonus and Anchises; of death and disease that wait for all. The life of the Gods is one long holiday; the end of our holiday is always near at hand. The Hymn to Dionysus, representing him as a youth in the fulness of beauty, is of a charm which was not attainable, while early art represented the God as a mature man; but literary art, in the Homeric age, was in advance of sculpture and painting. The chief merit of the Delian Hymn is in the concluding description of the assembled Ionians, happy seafarers like the Phaeacians in the morning of the world. The confusions of the Pythian Hymn to Apollo make it less agreeable; and the humour of the Hymn to Hermes is archaic. All those pieces, however, have delightfully fresh descriptions of sea and land, of shadowy dells, flowering meadows, dusky, fragrant caves; of the mountain glades where the wild beasts fawn in the train of the winsome Goddess; and the high still peaks where Pan wanders among the nymphs, and the glens where Artemis drives the deer, and the spacious halls and airy palaces of the Immortals. The Hymns are fragments of the work of a school which had a great Master and great traditions: they also illustrate many aspects of Greek religion. In the essays which follow, the religious aspect of the Hymns is chiefly dwelt upon: I endeavour to bring out what Greek religion had of human and sacred, while I try to explain its less majestic features as no less human: as derived from the earliest attempts at speculation and at mastering the secrets of the world. In these chapters regions are visited which scholars have usually neglected or ignored. It may seem strange to seek the origins of Apollo, and of the renowned Eleusinian Mysteries, in the tales and rites of the Bora and the Nanga; in the beliefs and practices of Pawnees and Larrakeah, Yao and Khond. But these tribes, too, are human, and what they now or lately were, the remote ancestors of the Greeks must once have been. All races have sought explanations of their own ritual in the adventures of the Dream Time, the _Alcheringa_, when beings of a more potent race, Gods or Heroes, were on earth, and achieved and endured such things as the rites commemorate. And the things thus endured and achieved, as I try to show, are everywhere of much the same nature; whether they are now commemorated by painted savages in the Bora or the Medicine Dance, or whether they were exhibited and proclaimed by the Eumolpidae in a splendid hall, to the pious of Hellas and of Rome. My attempt may seem audacious, and to many scholars may even be repugnant; but it is on these lines, I venture to think, that the darker problems of Greek religion and rite must be approached. They are all survivals, however fairly draped and adorned by the unique genius of the most divinely gifted race of mankind. The method of translation is that adopted by Professor Butcher and myself in the Odyssey, and by me in a version of Theocritus, as well as by Mr. Ernest Myers, who preceded us, in his Pindar. That method has lately been censured and, like all methods, is open to objection. But I confess that neither criticism nor example has converted me to the use of modern colloquial English, and I trust that my persistence in using poetical English words in the translation of Greek poetry will not greatly offend. I cannot render a speech of Anchises thus:-- "If you really are merely a mortal, and if a woman of the normal kind was your mother, while your father (as you lay it down) was the well- known Otreus, and if you come here all through an undying person, Hermes; and if you are to be known henceforward as my wife,--why, then nobody, mortal or immortal, shall interfere with my intention to take instant advantage of the situation." That kind of speech, though certainly long-winded, may be the manner in which a contemporary pastoralist would address a Goddess "in a coming on humour." But the situation does not occur in the prose of our existence, and I must prefer to translate the poet in a manner more congenial, if less up to date. For one rare word "Etin" ([Greek text]) I must apologise: it seems to me to express the vagueness of the unfamiliar monster, and is old Scots, as in the tale of "The Red Etin of Ireland." THE HYMN TO APOLLO The Hymn to Apollo presents innumerable difficulties, both of text, which is very corrupt, and as to the whole nature and aim of the composition. In this version it is divided into two portions, the first dealing with the birth of Apollo, and the foundation of his shrine in the isle of Delos; the second concerned with the establishment of his Oracle and fane at Delphi. The division is made merely to lighten the considerable strain on the attention of the English reader. I have no pretensions to decide whether the second portion was by the author of the first, or is an imitation by another hand, or is contemporary, or a later addition, or a mere compilation from several sources. The first part seems to find a natural conclusion, about lines 176-181. The blind singer (who is quoted here by Thucydides) appears at that point to say farewell to his cherished Ionian audience. What follows, in our second part, appeals to hearers interested in the Apollo of Crisa, and of the Delphian temple: the _Pythian_ Apollo. According to a highly ingenious, but scarcely persuasive theory of Mr. Verrall's, this interest is unfriendly. {13} Our second part is no hymn at all, but a sequel tacked on for political purposes only: and valuable for these purposes because so tacked on. From line 207 to the end we have this sequel, the story of Apollo's dealings as Delphinian, and as Pythian; all this following on detached fragments of enigmatic character, and containing also (305-355) the intercalated myth about the birth of Typhaon from Hera's anger. In the politically inspired sequel there is, according to Mr. Verrall, no living zeal for the honour of Pytho (Delphi). The threat of the God to his Cretan ministers,--"Beware of arrogance, or . . . "--must be a prophecy after the event. Now such an event occurred, early in the sixth century, when the Crisaeans were supplanted by the people of the town that had grown up round the Oracle at Delphi. In them, and in the Oracle under their management, the poet shows no interest (Mr. Verrall thinks), none in the many mystic peculiarities of the shrine. It is quite in contradiction with Delphian tradition to represent, as the Hymn does, Trophonius and Agamedes as the _original_ builders. Many other points are noted--such as the derivation of "Pytho" from a word meaning _rot_,--to show that the hymnist was rather disparaging than celebrating the Delphian sanctuary. Taking the Hymn as a whole, more is done for Delos in three lines, says Mr. Verrall, than for Pytho or Delphi in three hundred. As a whole, the spirit of the piece is much more Delian (Ionian) than Delphic. So Mr. Verrall regards the _Cento_ as "a religious pasquinade against the sanctuary on Parnassus," a pasquinade emanating from Athens, under the Pisistratidae, who, being Ionian leaders, had a grudge against "the Dorian Delphi," "a comparatively modern, unlucky, and from the first unsatisfactory" institution. Athenians are interested in the "far-seen" altar of the seaman's Dolphin God on the shore, rather than in his inland Pythian habitation. All this, with much more, is decidedly ingenious. If accepted it might lead the way to a general attack on the epics, as _tendenz_ pieces, works with a political purpose, or doctored for a political purpose. But how are we to understand the uses of the pasquinade Hymn? Was it published, so to speak, to amuse and aid the Pisistratidae? Does such remote antiquity show us any examples of such handling of sacred things in poetry? Might we not argue that Apollo's threat to the Crisaeans was meant by the poet as a friendly warning, and is prior to the fall of Crisa? One is reminded of the futile ingenuity with which German critics, following their favourite method, have analysed the fatal Casket Letters of Mary Stuart into letters to her husband, Darnley; or to Murray; or by Darnley to Mary, with scraps of her diary, and false interpolations. The enemies of the Queen, coming into possession of her papers after the affair of Carberry Hill, falsified the Casket Letters into their present appearance of unity. Of course historical facts make this ingenuity unavailing. We regret the circumstance in the interest of the Queen's reputation, but welcome these illustrative examples of what can be done in Germany. {16a} Fortunately all Teutons are not so ingenious. Baumeister has fallen on those who, in place of two hymns, Delian and Pythian, to Apollo, offer us half-a-dozen fragments. By presenting an array of discordant conjectures as to the number and nature of these scraps, he demonstrates the purely wilful and arbitrary nature of the critical method employed. {16b} Thus one learned person believes in (1) two perfect little poems; (2) two larger hymns; (3) three lacerated fragments of hymns, one lacking its beginning, the other wofully deprived of its end. Another _savant_ detects no less than eight fragments, with interpolations; though perhaps no biblical critic _ejusdem farinae_ has yet detected eight Isaiahs. There are about ten other theories of similar plausibility and value. Meanwhile Baumeister argues that the Pythian Hymn (our second part) is an imitation of the Delian; by a follower, not of Homer, but of Hesiod. Thus, the Hesiodic school was closely connected with Delphi; the Homeric with Ionia, so that Delphi rarely occurs in the Epics; in fact only thrice (I. 405, [Greek text]. 80, [Greek text]. 581). The local knowledge is accurate (Pythian Hymn, 103 _sqq_.). These are local legends, and knowledge of the curious chariot ritual of Onchestus. The Muses are united with the Graces as in a work of art in the Delphian temple. The poet chooses the Hesiodic and un-Homeric myth of Heaven and Earth, and their progeny: a myth current also in Polynesia, Australia, and New Zealand. The poet is full of inquiry as to origins, even etymological, as is Hesiod. Like Hesiod (and Mr. Max Muller), _origines rerum ex nominibus explicat_. Finally, the second poet (and here every one must agree) is a much worse poet than the first. As for the prophetic word of warning to the Crisaeans and its fulfilment, Baumeister urges that the people of Cirrha, the seaport, not of Crisa, were punished, in Olympiad 47 (Grote, ii. 374). Turning to Gemoll, we find him maintaining that the two parts were in ancient times regarded as one hymn in the age of Aristophanes. {18} If so, we can only reply, if we agree with Baumeister, that in the age of Aristophanes, or earlier, there was a plentiful lack of critical discrimination. As to Baumeister's theory that the second part is Hesiodic, Gemoll finds a Hesiodic reminiscence in the first part (line 121), while there are Homeric reminiscences in the second part. Thus do the learned differ among themselves, and an ordinary reader feels tempted to rely on his own literary taste. According to that criterion, I think we probably have in the Hymn the work of a good poet, in the early part; and in the latter part, or second Hymn, the work of a bad poet, selecting unmanageable passages of myth, and handling them pedantically and ill. At all events we have here work visibly third rate, which cannot be said, in my poor opinion, about the immense mass of the Iliad and Odyssey. The great Alexandrian critics did not use the Hymns as illustrative material in their discussion of Homer. Their instinct was correct, and we must not start the consideration of the Homeric question from these much neglected pieces. We must not study _obscurum per obscurius_. The genius of the Epic soars high above such myths as those about Pytho, Typhaon, and the Apollo who is alternately a dolphin and a meteor: soars high above pedantry and bad etymology. In the Epics we breathe a purer air. Descending, as it did, from the mythology of savages, the mythic store of Greece was rich in legends such as we find among the lowest races. Homer usually ignores them: Hesiod and the authors of the Hymns are less noble in their selections. For this reason and for many others, we regard the Hymns, on the whole, as post-Homeric, while their collector, by inserting the Hymn to Ares, shows little proof of discrimination. Only the methods of modern German scholars, such as Wilamowitz Mollendorf, and of Englishmen like Mr. Walter Leaf, can find in the Epics marks of such confusion, dislocation, and interpolations as confront us in the Hymn to Apollo. (I may refer to my work, "Homer and the Epic," for a defence of the unity of Iliad and Odyssey.) For example, Mr. Verrall certainly makes it highly probable that the Pythian Hymn, at least in its concluding words of the God, is not earlier than the sixth century. But no proof of anything like this force is brought against the antiquity of the Iliad or Odyssey. As to the myths in the Hymns, I would naturally study them from the standpoint of anthropology, and in the light of comparison of the legends of much more backward peoples than the Greeks. But that light at present is for me broken and confused. I have been led to conclusions varying from those of such students as Mr. Tylor and Mr. Spencer, and these conclusions should be stated, before they are applied to the Myth of Apollo. I am not inclined, like them, to accept "Animism," or "The Ghost Theory," as the master-key to the _origin_ of religion, though Animism is a great tributary stream. To myself it now appears that among the lowest known races we find present a fluid mass of beliefs both high and low, from the belief in a moral creative being, a judge of men, to the pettiest fable which envisages him as a medicine-man, or even as a beast or bird. In my opinion the higher belief may very well be the earlier. While I can discern the processes by which the lower myths were evolved, and were attached to a worthier pre-existing creed, I cannot see how, if the lower faiths came first, the higher faith was ever evolved out of _them_ by very backward savages. On the other side, in the case of Australia, Mr. Tylor writes: "For a long time after Captain Cook's visit, the information as to native religious ideas is of the scantiest." This was inevitable, for our information has only been obtained with the utmost difficulty, and under promises of secrecy, by later inquirers who had entirely won the confidence of the natives, and had been initiated into their Mysteries. Mr. Tylor goes on in the same sentence: "But, since the period of European colonists and missionaries, a crowd of alleged native names for the Supreme Deity and a great Evil Deity have been recorded, which, if really of native origin, would show the despised black fellow as in possession of theological generalisations as to the formation and conservation of the universe, and the nature of good and evil, comparable with those of his white supplanter in the land." {23a} Mr. Tylor then proceeds to argue that these ideas have been borrowed from missionaries. I have tried to reply to this argument by proving, for example, that the name of Baiame, one of these deities, could not have been borrowed (as Mr. Tylor seems inclined to hold) from a missionary tract published sixteen years after we first hear of Baiame, who, again, was certainly dominant before the arrival of missionaries. I have adduced other arguments of the same tendency, and I will add that the earliest English explorers and missionaries in Virginia and New England (1586-1622) report from America beliefs absolutely parallel in many ways to the creeds now reported from Australia. Among these notions are "ideas of moral judgment and retribution after death," which in Australia Mr. Tylor marks as "imported." {23b} In my opinion the certainty that the beliefs in America were not imported, is another strong argument for their native character, when they are found with such striking resemblances among the very undeveloped savages of Australia. Savages, Mr. Hartland says in a censure of my theory, are "guiltless" of Christian teaching. {24} If Mr. Hartland is right, Mr. Tylor is wrong; the ideas, whatever else they are, are unimported, yet, _teste_ Mr. Tylor, the ideas are comparable with those of the black man's white supplanters. I would scarcely go so far. If we take, however, the best ideas attributed to the blacks, and hold them disengaged from the accretion of puerile fables with which they are overrun, then there are discovered notions of high religious value, undeniably analogous to some Christian dogmas. But the sanction of the Australian gods is as powerfully lent to silly, or cruel, or needless ritual, as to some moral ideas of weight and merit. In brief, as far as I am able to see, all sorts of ideas, the lowest and the highest, are held at once confusedly by savages, and the same confusion survives in ancient Greek belief. As far back as we can trace him, man had a wealth of religious and mythical conceptions to choose from, and different peoples, as they advanced in civilisation, gave special prominence to different elements in the primal stock of beliefs. The choice of Israel was unique: Greece retained far more of the lower ancient ideas, but gave to them a beauty of grace and form which is found among no other race. If this view be admitted for the moment, and for the argument's sake, we may ask how it applies to the myths of Apollo. Among the ideas which even now prevail among the backward peoples still in the neolithic stage of culture, we may select a few conceptions. There is the conception of a great primal anthropomorphic Being, who was in the beginning, or, at least, about whose beginning legend is silent. He made all things, he existed on earth (in some cases), teaching men the arts of life and rules of conduct, social and moral. In those instances he retired from earth, and now dwells on high, still concerned with the behaviour of the tribes. This is a lofty conception, but it is entangled with a different set of legends. This primal Being is mixed up with strange persons of a race earlier than man, half human, half bestial. Many things, in some cases almost all things, are mythically regarded, not as created, but as the results of adventures and metamorphoses among the members of this original race. Now in New Zealand, Polynesia, Greece, and elsewhere, but not, to my knowledge, in the very most backward peoples, the place of this original race, "Old, old Ones," is filled by great natural objects, Earth, Sky, Sea, Forests, regarded as beings of human parts and passions. The present universe is mythically arranged in regard to their early adventures: the separation of sky and earth, and so forth. Where this belief prevails we find little or no trace of the primal maker and master, though we do find strange early metaphysics of curiously abstract quality (Maoris, Zunis, Polynesians). As far as our knowledge goes, Greek mythology springs partly from this stratum of barbaric as opposed to strictly savage thought. Ouranos and Gaea, Cronos, and the Titans represent the primal beings who have their counterpart in Maori and Wintu legend. But these, in the Greece of the Epics and Hesiod, have long been subordinated to Zeus and the Olympians, who are envisaged as triumphant gods of a younger generation. There is no Creator; but Zeus--how, we do not know--has come to be regarded as a Being relatively Supreme, and as, on occasion, the guardian of morality. Of course his conduct, in myth, is represented as a constant violation of the very rules of life which he expects mankind to observe. I am disposed to look on this essential contradiction as the result of a series of mythical accretions on an original conception of Zeus in his higher capacity. We can see how the accretions arose. Man never lived consistently on the level of his best original ideas: savages also have endless myths of Baiame or Daramulun, or Bunjil, in which these personages, though interested in human behaviour, are puerile, cruel, absurd, lustful, and so on. Man will sport thus with his noblest intuitions. In the same way, in Christian Europe, we may contrast Dunbar's pious "Ballat of Our Lady" with his "Kynd Kittok," in which God has his eye on the soul of an intemperate ale-wife who has crept into Paradise. "God lukit, and saw her lattin in, and leugh His heart sair." Examples of this kind of sportive irreverence are common enough; their root is in human nature: and they could not be absent in the mythology of savage or of ancient peoples. To Zeus the myths of this kind would come to be attached in several ways. As a nature-god of the Heaven he marries the Earth. The tendency of men being to claim descent from a God, for each family with this claim a myth of a separate divine amour was needed. Where there had existed Totemism, or belief in kinship with beasts, the myth of the amour of a wolf, bull, serpent, swan, and so forth, was attached to the legend of Zeus. Zeus had been that swan, serpent, wolf, or bull. Once more, ritual arose, in great part, from the rites of sympathetic magic. This or that mummery was enacted by men for a magical purpose, to secure success in the chase, agriculture, or war. When the performers asked, "Why do we do thus and thus?" the answer was, "Zeus first did so," or Demeter, or Apollo did so, on a certain occasion. About that occasion a myth was framed, and finally there was no profligacy, cruelty, or absurdity of which the God was not guilty. Yet, all the time, he punished adultery, inhospitality, perjury, incest, cannibalism, and other excesses, of which, in legend, he was always setting the example. We know from Xenophanes, Plato, and St. Augustine how men's consciences were tormented by this unceasing contradiction: this overgrowth of myth on the stock of an idea originally noble. It is thus that I would attempt to account for the contradictory conceptions of Zeus, for example. As to Apollo, I do not think that mythologists determined to find, in Apollo, some deified aspect of Nature, have laid stress enough on his counterparts in savage myth. We constantly find, in America, in the Andaman Isles, and in Australia, that, subordinate to the primal Being, there exists another who enters into much closer relations with mankind. He is often concerned with healing and with prophecy, or with the inspiration of conjurers or shamans. Sometimes he is merely an underling, as in the case of the Massachusetts Kiehtan, and his more familiar subordinate, Hobamoc. {30} But frequently this go-between of God and Man is (like Apollo) the _Son_ of the primal Being (often an unbegotten Son) or his Messenger (Andaman, Noongaburrah, Kurnai, Kamilaroi, and other Australian tribes). He reports to the somewhat otiose primal Being about men's conduct, and he sometimes superintends the Mysteries. I am disposed to regard the prophetic and oracular Apollo (who, as the Hymn to Hermes tells us, alone knows the will of Father Zeus) as the Greek modification of this personage in savage theology. Where this Son is found in Australia, I by no means regard him as a savage refraction from Christian teaching about a mediator, for Christian teaching, in fact, has not been accepted, least of all by the highly conservative sorcerers, or shamans, or wirreenuns of the tribes. European observers, of course, have been struck by (and have probably exaggerated in some instances) the Christian analogy. But if they had been as well acquainted with ancient Greek as with Christian theology they would have remarked that the Andaman, American, and Australian "mediators" are infinitely more akin to Apollo, in his relations with Zeus and with men, than to any Person about whom missionaries can preach. But the most devoted believer in borrowing will not say that, when the Australian mediator, Tundun, son of Mungun-gnaur, turns into a porpoise, the Kurnai have borrowed from our Hymn of the Dolphin Apollo. It is absurd to maintain that the Son of the God, the go-between of God and men, in savage theology, is borrowed from missionaries, while this being has so much more in common with Apollo (from whom he cannot conceivably be borrowed) than with Christ. The Tundun-porpoise story seems to have arisen in gratitude to the porpoise, which drives fishes inshore, for the natives to catch. Neither Tharamulun nor Hobamoc (Australian and American Gods of healing and soothsaying), who appear to men as serpents, are borrowed from Asclepius, or from the Python of Apollo. The processes have been quite different, and in Apollo, the oracular son of Zeus, who declares his counsel to men, I am apt to see a beautiful Greek modification of the type of the mediating Son of the primal Being of savage belief, adorned with many of the attributes of the Sun God, from whom, however, he is fundamentally distinct. Apollo, I think, is an adorned survival of the Son of the God of savage theology. He was not, at first, a Nature God, solar or not. This opinion, if it seems valid, helps to account, in part, for the animal metamorphoses of Apollo, a survival from the mental confusion of savagery. Such a confusion, in Greece, makes it necessary for the wise son of Zeus to seek information, as in the Hymn to Hermes, from an old clown. This medley of ideas, in the mind of a civilised poet, who believes that Apollo is all-knowing in the counsels of eternity, is as truly mythological as Dunbar's God who laughs his heart sore at an ale-house jest. Dunbar, and the author of the Hymn, and the savage with his tale of Tundun or Daramulun, have all quite contradictory sets of ideas alternately present to their minds; the mediaeval poet, of course, being conscious of the contradiction, which makes the essence of his humour, such as it is. To Greece, in its loftier moods, Apollo was, despite his myth, a noble source of inspiration, of art, and of conduct. But the contradiction in the low myth and high doctrine of Apollo, could never be eradicated under any influence less potent than that of Christianity. {34} If this theory of Apollo's origin be correct, many pages of learned works on Mythology need to be rewritten. THE HYMN TO HERMES [Hermes with the boy Dionysos. Statue by Praxiteles, found at Olympia: lang35.jpg] The Hymn to Hermes is remarkable for the corruption of the text, which appears even to present _lacunae_. The English reader will naturally prefer the lively and charming version of Shelley to any other. The poet can tell and adorn the story without visibly floundering in the pitfalls of a dislocated text. If we may judge by line 51, and if Greek musical tradition be correct, the date of the Hymn cannot be earlier than the fortieth Olympiad. About that period Terpander is said to have given the lyre seven strings (as Mercury does in the poem), in place of the previous four strings. The date of Terpander is dubious, but probably the seven-stringed lyre had long been in common use before the poet attributed the invention to Hermes. The same argument applies to the antiquity of writing, assigned by poets as the invention of various mythical and prehistoric heroes. But the poets were not careful archaeologists, and regarded anachronisms as genially as did Shakespeare or Scott. Moreover, the fact that Terpander did invent the seven chords is not beyond dispute historically, while, mythically, Apollo and Amphion are credited with the idea. That Hermes invented fire-sticks seems a fable which robs Prometheus of the honour. We must not look for any kind of consistency in myth. The learned differ as to the precise purpose of the Hymn, and some even exclude the invention of the _cithara_. To myself it seems that the poet chiefly revels in a very familiar subject of savage humour (notably among the Zulus), the extraordinary feats and tricks of a tiny and apparently feeble and helpless person or animal, such as Brer Rabbit. The triumph of astuteness over strength (a triumph here assigned to the infancy of a God) is the theme. Hermes is here a rustic _doublure_ of Apollo, as he was, in fact, mainly a rural deity, though he became the Messenger of the Gods, and the Guide of Souls outworn. In these respects he answers to the Australian Grogoragally, in his double relation to the Father, Boyma, and to men living and dead. {37a} As a go-between of Gods and men, Hermes may be a _doublure_ of Apollo, but, as the Hymn shows, he aspired in vain to Apollo's oracular function. In one respect his behaviour has a singular savage parallel. His shoes woven of twigs, so as not to show the direction in which he is proceeding, answer to the equally shapeless feather sandals of the blacks who "go _Kurdaitcha_," that is, as avengers of blood. I have nowhere else found this practice as to the shoes, which, after all, cannot conceal the direction of the spoor from a native tracker. {37b} The trick of driving the cattle backwards answers to the old legend that Bruce reversed the shoes of his horse when he fled from the court of Edward I. The humour of the Hymn is rather rustic: cattle theft is the chief joke, cattle theft by a baby. The God, divine as he is, feels his mouth water for roast beef, a primitive conception. In fact, throughout this Hymn we are far from the solemn regard paid to Apollo, from the wistful beauty of the Hymn to Demeter, and from the gladness and melancholy of the Hymn to Aphrodite. Sportive myths are treated sportively, as in the story of Ares and Aphrodite in the Odyssey. Myths contained all conceivable elements, among others that of humour, to which the poet here abandons himself. The statues and symbols of Hermes were inviolably sacred; as Guide of Souls he played the part of comforter and friend: he brought men all things lucky and fortunate: he made the cattle bring forth abundantly: he had the golden wand of wealth. But he was also tricksy as a Brownie or as Puck; and that fairy aspect of his character and legend, he being the midnight thief whose maraudings account for the unexplained disappearances of things, is the chief topic of the gay and reckless hymn. Even the Gods, even angry Apollo, are moved to laughter, for over sport and playfulness, too, Greek religion throws her sanction. At the dishonesties of commerce (clearly regarded as a form of theft) Hermes winks his laughing eyes (line 516). This is not an early Socialistic protest against "Commercialism." The early traders, like the Vikings, were alternately pirates and hucksters, as opportunity served. Every occupation must have its heavenly patron, its departmental deity, and Hermes protects thieves and raiders, "minions of the moon," "clerks of St. Nicholas." His very birth is a stolen thing, the darkling fruit of a divine amour in a dusky cavern. _Il chasse de race_. {39} THE HYMN TO APHRODITE The Hymn to Aphrodite is, in a literary sense, one of the most beautiful and quite the most Homeric in the collection. By "Homeric" I mean that if we found the adventure of Anchises occurring at length in the Iliad, by way of an episode, perhaps in a speech of AEneas, it would not strike us as inconsistent in tone, though occasionally in phrase. Indeed the germ of the Hymn occurs in Iliad, B. 820: "AEneas, whom holy Aphrodite bore to the embraces of Anchises on the knowes of Ida, a Goddess couching with a mortal." Again, in E. 313, AEneas is spoken of as the son of Aphrodite and the neat-herd, Anchises. The celebrated prophecy of the future rule of the children of AEneas over the Trojans (Y. 307), probably made, like many prophecies, after the event, appears to indicate the claim of a Royal House at Ilios, and is regarded as of later date than the general context of the epic. The AEneid is constructed on this hint; the Romans claiming to be of Trojan descent through AEneas. The date of the composition cannot be fixed from considerations of the Homeric tone; thus lines 238-239 may be a reminiscence of Odyssey, [Greek text]. 394, and other like suggestions are offered. {41} The conjectures as to date vary from the time of Homer to that of the _Cypria_, of Mimnermus (the references to the bitterness of loveless old age are in his vein) of Anacreon, or even of Herodotus and the Tragedians. The words [Greek text], [Greek text], and other indications are relied on for a late date: and there are obvious coincidences with the Hymn to Demeter, as in line 174, _Demeter_ 109, f. Gemoll, however, takes this hymn to be the earlier. About the place of composition, Cyprus or Asia Minor, the learned are no less divided than about the date. Many of the grounds on which their opinions rest appear unstable. The relations of Aphrodite to the wild beasts under her wondrous spell, for instance, need not be borrowed from Circe with her attendant beasts. If not of Homer's age, the Hymn is markedly successful as a continuation of the Homeric tone and manner. Modern Puritanism naturally "condemns" Aphrodite, as it "condemns" Helen. But Homer is lenient; Helen is under the spell of the Gods, an unwilling and repentant tool of Destiny; and Aphrodite, too, is driven by Zeus into the arms of a mortal. She is [Greek text], shamefast; and her adventure is to her a bitter sorrow (199, 200). The dread of Anchises--a man is not long of life who lies with a Goddess--refers to a belief found from Glenfinlas to Samoa and New Caledonia, that the embraces of the spiritual ladies of the woodlands are fatal to men. The legend has been told to me in the Highlands, and to Mr. Stevenson in Samoa, while my cousin, Mr. J. J. Atkinson, actually knew a Kaneka who died in three days after an amour like that of Anchises. The Breton ballad, _Le Sieur Nan_, turns on the same opinion. The amour of Thomas the Rhymer is a mediaeval analogue of the Idaean legend. Aphrodite has better claims than most Greek Gods to Oriental elements. Herodotus and Pausanias (i. xiv. 6, iii. 23, I) look on her as a being first worshipped by the Assyrians, then by the Paphians of Cyprus, and Phoenicians at Askelon, who communicated the cult to the Cythereans. Cyprus is one of her most ancient sites, and Ishtar and Ashtoreth are among her Oriental analogues. She springs from the sea-- "The wandering waters knew her, the winds and the viewless ways, And the roses grew rosier, and bluer the sea-blue streams of the bays." But the charm of Aphrodite is Greek. Even without foreign influence, Greek polytheism would have developed a Goddess of Love, as did the polytheism of the North (Frigga) and of the Aztecs. The rites of Adonis, the vernal year, are, even in the name of the hero, Oriental. "The name Adonis is the Phoenician _Adon_, 'Lord.'" {44} "The decay and revival of vegetation" inspires the Adonis rite, which is un-Homeric; and was superfluous, where the descent and return of Persephone typified the same class of ideas. To whatever extent contaminated by Phoenician influence, Aphrodite in Homer is purely Greek, in grace and happy humanity. The origins of Aphrodite, unlike the origins of Apollo, cannot be found in a state of low savagery. She is a departmental Goddess, and as such, as ruling a province of human passion, she belongs to a late development of religion. To Christianity she was a scandal, one of the scandals which are absent from the most primitive of surviving creeds. Polytheism, as if of set purpose, puts every conceivable aspect of life, good or bad, under divine sanction. This is much less the case in the religion of the very backward races. We do not know historically, what the germs of religion were; if we look at the most archaic examples, for instance in Australia or the Andaman Islands, we find neither sacrifice nor departmental deities. Religion there is mainly a belief in a primal Being, not necessarily conceived as spiritual, but rather as an undying magnified Man, of indefinitely extensive powers. He dwells above "the vaulted sky beyond which lies the mysterious home of that great and powerful Being, who is Bunjil, Baiame, or Daramulun in different tribal languages, but who in all is known by a name the equivalent of the only one used by the Kurnai, which is Mungan-ngaur, or 'Our Father.'" {45} This Father is conceived of in some places as "a very great old man with a long beard," enthroned on, or growing into, a crystal throne. Often he is served by a son or sons (Apollo, Hermes), frequently regarded as spiritually begotten; elsewhere, looked on as the son of the wife of the deity, and as father of the tribe. {46a} Scandals connected with fatherhood, amorous intrigues so abundant in Greek mythology, are usually not reported among the lowest races. In one known case, the deity, Pundjel or Bunjil, takes the wives of Karween, who is changed into a crane. {46b} This is one of the many savage aetiological myths which account for the peculiarities of animals as a result of metamorphosis, in the manner of Ovid. It has been connected with the legend of Bunjil, who is thus envisaged, not as "Our Father" beyond the vault of heaven, who still inspires poets, {46c} but as a wandering, shape-shifting medicine-man. Zeus, the Heavenly Father, of course appears times without number in the same contradictory aspect. But such anecdotes are either not common, or are not frequently reported, in the faiths of the most archaic of known races. Much more frequently we find the totemistic conception. All the kindreds with animal names (why adopted we do not know) are apt to explain these designations by descent from the animals selected, or by metamorphosis of the primal beasts into men. This collides with the other notions of descent from, or creation or manufacture out of clay, by the primal Being, "Father Ours." Such contradictions are nothing to the savage theologian, who is no reconciler or apologist. But when reconciliation and apology are later found to be desirable, as in Greece, it is easy to explain that we are descended _both_ from Our Father, and from a swan, cow, ant, serpent, dog, wolf, or what you will. That beast was Our Father, say Father Zeus, in animal disguise. Thus Greek legends of bestial amours of a God are probably, in origin, not primitive, but scandals produced in the effort to reconcile contradictory myths. The result is a worse scandal, an accretion of more low myths about a conception of the primal Being which was, relatively, lofty and pure. Again, as aristocracies arose, the chief families desired to be sons of the Father in a special sense: not as common men are. Her Majesty's lineage may thus be traced to Woden! Now each such descent required a separate divine amour, and a new scandalous story of Zeus or Apollo, though Zeus may originally have been as celibate as the Australian Baiame or Noorele are, in some legends. Once more, syncretism came in as a mythopoeic influence. Say that several Australian nations, becoming more polite, amalgamated into a settled people. Then we should have several Gods, the chief Beings of various tribes, say Noorele, Bunjil, Mungan- ngaur, Baiame, Daramulun, Mangarrah, Mulkari, Pinmeheal. The most imposing God of the dominant tribe might be elevated to the sovereignty of Zeus. But, in the new administration, places must be found for the other old tribal Gods. They are, therefore, set over various departments: Love, War, Agriculture, Medicine, Poetry, Commerce, while one or more of the sons take the places of Apollo and Hermes. There appears to be a very early example of syncretism in Australia. Daramulun (Papang, Our Father) is "Master of All," on the coast, near Shoalhaven River. Baiame is "Master of All," far north, on the Barwan. But the locally intermediate tribe of the Wiraijuri, or Wiradthuri, have adopted Baiame, and reduced Daramulun to an exploded bugbear, a merely nominal superintendent of the Mysteries; and the southern Coast Murring have rejected Baiame altogether, or never knew him, while making Daramulun supreme. One obvious method of reconciling various tribal Gods in a syncretic Olympus, is the genealogical. All are children of Zeus, for example, or grandchildren, or brothers and sisters. Fancy then provides an amour to account for each relationship. Zeus loved Leto, Leda, Europa, and so forth. Thus a God, originally innocent and even moral, becomes a perfect pattern of vice; and the eternal contradiction vexes the souls of Xenophanes, Plato, and St. Augustine. Sacrifices, even human sacrifices, wholly unknown to the most archaic faiths, were made to ghosts of men: and especially of kings, in the case of human sacrifice. Thence they were transferred to Gods, and behold a new scandal, when men began to reflect under more civilised conditions. Thus all these legends of divine amours and sins, or most of them, including the wanton legend of Aphrodite, and all the human sacrifices which survived to the disgrace of Greek religion, are really degrading accessories to the most archaic beliefs. They are products, not of the most rudimentary savage existence, but of the evolution through the lower and higher barbarism. The worst features of savage ritual are different--taking the lines of sorcery, of cruel initiations, and, perhaps, of revival of the licence of promiscuity, or of Group Marriage. Of these things the traces are not absent from Greek faith, but they are comparatively inconspicuous. Buffoonery, as we have seen, exists in all grades of civilised or savage rites, and was not absent from the popular festivals of the mediaeval Church: religion throwing her mantle over every human field of action, as over Folk Medicine. On these lines I venture to explain what seem to me the strange and repugnant elements of the religion of a people so refined, and so capable of high moral ideas, as the Greeks. Aphrodite is personified desire, but religion did not throw her mantle over desire alone; the cloistered life, the frank charm of maidenhood, were as dear to the Greek genius, and were consecrated by the examples of Athene, Artemis, and Hestia. She presides over the pure element of the fire of the hearth, just as in the household did the daughter of the king or chief. Hers are the first libations at feasts (xxviii. 5), though in Homer they are poured forth to Hermes. We may explain the Gods of the minor hymns in the same way. Pan, for instance, as the son of Hermes, inherits the wild, frolicsome, rural aspect of his character. The Dioscuri answer to the Vedic Asvins, twin rescuers of men in danger on land or sea: perhaps the Evening and Morning Star. Dionysus is another aspect of the joy of life and of the world and the vintaging. Moon and Sun, Selene and Helios, appear as quite distinct from Artemis and Apollo; Gaea, the Earth, is equally distinct from Demeter. The Hymn to Ares is quite un-Homeric in character, and is oddly conceived in the spirit of the Scottish poltroon, who cries to his friend, "Haud me, haud me, or I'll fecht!" The war-god is implored to moderate the martial eagerness of the poet. The original collector here showed lack of discrimination. At no time, however, was Ares a popular God in Greece; in Homer he is a braggart and coward. THE HYMN TO DEMETER The beautiful Hymn to Demeter, an example of Greek religious faith in its most pensive and most romantic aspects, was found in the last century (1780), in Moscow. _Inter pullos et porcos latitabat_: the song of the rural deity had found its way into the haunts of the humble creatures whom she protected. A discovery even more fortunate, in 1857, led Sir Charles Newton to a little _sacellum_, or family chapel, near Cnidos. On a platform of rock, beneath a cliff, and looking to the Mediterranean, were the ruins of the ancient shrine: the votive offerings; the lamps long without oil or flame; the Curses, or Dirae, inscribed on thin sheets of lead, and directed against thieves or rivals. The head of the statue, itself already known, was also discovered. Votive offerings, cheap curses, objects of folk-lore rite and of sympathetic magic,--these are connected with the popular, the peasant aspect of the religion of Demeter. She it is to whom pigs are sacrificed: who makes the fields fertile with scattered fragments of their flesh; and her rustic effigy, at Theocritus's feast of the harvest home, stands smiling, with corn and poppies in her hands. [Mourning Demeter. Marble statue from Knidos. In the British Museum: lang54.jpg] But the Cnidian shrine had once another treasure, the beautiful melancholy statue of the seated Demeter of the uplifted eyes; the mourning mother: the weary seeker for the lost maiden: her child Persephone. Far from the ruins above the sea, beneath the scorched seaward wall of rock: far from the aromatic fragrance of the rock-nourished flowers, from the bees, and the playful lizards, Demeter now occupies her place in the great halls of the British Museum. Like the Hymn, this melancholy and tender work of art is imperfect, but the sentiment is thereby rather increased than impaired. The ancients buried things broken with the dead, that the shadows of tool, or weapon, or vase might be set free, to serve the shadows of their masters in the land of the souls. Broken as they, too, are, the Hymn and the statue are "free among the dead," and eloquent of the higher religion that, in Greece, attached itself to the lost Maiden and the sorrowing Mother. Demeter, in religion, was more than a fertiliser of the fields: Kore, the Maiden, was more than the buried pig, or the seed sown to await its resurrection; or the harvest idol, fashioned of corn-stalks: more even than a symbol of the winter sleep and vernal awakening of the year and the life of nature. She became the "dread Persephone" of the Odyssey, "A Queen over death and the dead." In her winter retreat below the earth she was the bride of the Lord of Many Guests, and the ruler "of the souls of men outworn." In this office Odysseus in Homer knows her, though neither Iliad nor Odyssey recognises _Kore_ as the maiden Spring, the daughter and companion of Demeter as Goddess of Grain. Christianity, even, did not quite dethrone Persephone. She lives in two forms: first, as the harvest effigy made of corn-stalks bound together, the last gleanings; secondly, as "the Fairy Queen Proserpina," who carried Thomas the Rhymer from beneath the Eildon Tree to that land which lies beyond the stream of slain men's blood. "For a' the bluid that's shed on earth Flows through the streams of that countrie." [Silver denarius of C. Vibius Pansa (about 90 B.C.). Obv. Head of Apollo. Rev. Demeter searching for Persephone: lang56.jpg] Thus tenacious of life has been the myth of Mother and Maiden, a natural flower of the human heart, found, unborrowed, by the Spaniards in the maize-fields of Peru. Clearly the myth is a thing composed of many elements, glad and sad as the waving fields of yellow grain, or as the Chthonian darkness under earth where the seed awaits new life in the new year. The creed is practical as the folk-lore of sympathetic magic, which half expects to bring good harvest luck by various mummeries; and the creed is mystical as the hidden things and words unknown which assured Pindar and Sophocles of secure felicity in this and in the future life. The creed is beautiful as the exquisite profile of the corn-tressed head of Persephone on Syracusan coins: and it is grotesque as the custom which bade the pilgrims to Eleusis bathe in the sea, each with the pig which he was about to sacrifice. The highest religious hopes, the meanest magical mummeries are blended in this religion. That one element is earlier than the other we cannot say with much certainty. The ritual aspect, as concerned with the happy future of the soul, does not appear in Iliad or Odyssey, where the Mysteries are not named. But the silence of Homer is never a safe argument in favour of his ignorance, any more than the absence of allusion to tobacco in Shakspeare is a proof that tobacco was, in his age, unknown. We shall find that a barbaric people, the Pawnees, hold a mystery precisely parallel to the Demeter legend: a Mystery necessarily unborrowed from Greece. The Greeks, therefore, may have evolved the legend long before Homer's day, and he may have known the story which he does not find occasion to tell. As to what was said, shown, and done in the Eleusinia, we only gather that there was a kind of Mystery Play on the sacred legend; that there were fastings, vigils, sacrifices, secret objects displayed, sacred words uttered; and that thence such men as Pindar and Sophocles received the impression that for them, in this and the future life, all was well, was well for those of pure hearts and hands. The "purity" may partly have been ritual, but was certainly understood, also, as relating to excellence of life. Than such a faith (for faith it is) religion has nothing better to give. But the extreme diligence of scholars and archaeologists can tell us nothing more definite. The impressions on the souls of the initiated may have been caused merely by that dim or splendid religious light of the vigils, and by association with sacred things usually kept in solemn sanctuaries. Again, mere buffoonery (as is common in savage Mysteries) brought the pilgrims back to common life when they crossed the bridge on their return to Athens; just as the buffooneries of Baubo brought a smile to the sad lips of Demeter. Beyond this all is conjecture, and the secret may have been so well kept just because, in fact, there was no secret to keep. {59} Till the end of the present century, mythologists did not usually employ the method of comparing Greek rites and legends with, first, the sympathetic magic and the fables of peasant folk-lore; second, with the Mysteries and myths of contemporary savage races, of which European folk- lore is mainly a survival. For a study of Demeter from these sides (a study still too much neglected in Germany) readers may consult Mannhardt's works, Mr. Frazer's "Golden Bough," and the present translator's "Custom and Myth," and "Myth, Ritual, and Religion." Mr. Frazer, especially, has enabled the English reader to understand the savage and rural element of sympathetic magic as a factor in the Demeter myth. Meanwhile Mr. Pater has dealt with the higher sentiment, the more religious aspect, of the myth and the rites. I am not inclined to go all lengths with Mr. Frazer's ingenious and learned system, as will be seen, while regretting that the new edition of his "Golden Bough" is not yet accessible. If we accept (which I do not entirely) Mr. Frazer's theory of the origin of the Demeter myth, there is no finer example of the Greek power of transforming into beauty the superstitions of Barbarism. The explanation to which I refer is contained in Mr. J. G. Frazer's learned and ingenious work, "The Golden Bough." While mythologists of the schools of Mr. Max Muller and Kuhn have usually resolved most Gods and heroes into Sun, Sky, Dawn, Twilight; or, again, into elemental powers of Thunder, Tempest, Lightning, and Night, Mr. Frazer is apt to see in them the Spirit of Vegetation. Osiris is a Tree Spirit or a Corn Spirit (Mannhardt, the founder of the system, however, took Osiris to be the Sun). Balder is the Spirit of the Oak. The oak, "we may certainly conclude, was one of the chief, if not the very chief divinity of the Aryans before the dispersion." {61} If so, the Aryans before the dispersion were on an infinitely lower religious level than those Australian tribes, whose chief divinity is not a gum-tree, but a being named "Our Father," dwelling beyond the visible heavens. When we remember the vast numbers of gods of sky or heaven among many scattered races, and the obvious connection of Zeus with the sky (_sub Jove frigido_), and the usually assigned sense of the name of Zeus, it is not easy to suppose that he was originally an oak. But Mr. Frazer considers the etymological connection of Zeus with the Sanscrit word for sky, an insufficient reason for regarding Zeus as, in origin, a sky-god. He prefers, it seems, to believe that, as being the wood out of which fire was kindled by some Aryan-speaking peoples, the oak may have come to be called "The Bright or Shining One" (Zeus, Jove), by the ancient Greeks and Italians. {62} The Greeks, in fact, used the laurel (_daphne_) for making fire, not, as far as I am aware, the oak. Though the oak was the tree of Zeus, the heavens were certainly his province, and, despite the oak of Dodona, and the oak on the Capitol, he is much more generally connected with the sky than with the tree. In fact this reduction of Zeus, in origin, to an oak, rather suggests that the spirit of system is too powerful with Mr. Frazer. He makes, perhaps, a more plausible case for his reduction of dread Persephone to a Pig. The process is curious. Early agricultural man believed in a Corn Spirit, a spiritual essence animating the grain (in itself no very unworthy conception). But because, as the field is mown, animals in the corn are driven into the last unshorn nook, and then into the open, the beast which rushed out of the last patch was identified with the Corn Spirit in some animal shape, perhaps that of a pig; many other animals occur. The pig has a great part in the ritual of Demeter. Pigs of pottery were found by Sir Charles Newton on her sacred ground. The initiate in the Mysteries brought pigs to Eleusis, and bathed with them in the sea. The pig was sacrificed to her; in fact (though not in our Hymn) she was closely associated with pigs. "We may now ask . . . may not the pig be nothing but the Goddess herself in animal form?" {64a} She would later become anthropomorphic: a lovely Goddess, whose hair, as in the Hymn, is "yellow as ripe corn." But the prior pig could not be shaken off. At the Attic Thesmophoria the women celebrated the Descent and Ascent of Persephone,--a "double" of Demeter. In this rite pigs and other things were thrown into certain caverns. Later, the cold remains of pig were recovered and placed on the altar. Fragments were scattered for luck on the fields with the seed-corn. A myth explained that a flock of pigs were swallowed by Earth when Persephone was ravished by Hades to the lower world, of which matter the Hymn says nothing. "In short, the pigs were Proserpine." {64b} The eating of pigs at the Thesmophoria was "a partaking of the body of the God," though the partakers, one thinks, must have been totally unconscious of the circumstance. We must presume that (if this theory be correct) a very considerable time was needed for the evolution of a pig into the Demeter of the Hymn, and the change is quite successfully complete; a testimony to the transfiguring power of the Greek genius. We may be inclined to doubt, however, whether the task before the genius of Greece, the task of making Proserpine out of a porker, was really so colossal. The primitive mind is notoriously capable of entertaining, simultaneously, the most contradictory notions. Thus, in the Australian "Legend of Eerin," the mourners implore Byamee to accept the soul of the faithful Eerin into his Paradise, Bullimah. No doubt Byamee heard, yet Eerin is now a little owl of plaintive voice, which ratters warning cries in time of peril. {65} No incongruity of this kind is felt to be a difficulty by the childlike narrators. Now I conceive that, starting with the relatively high idea of a Spirit of the Grain, early man was quite capable of envisaging it both spiritually and in zoomorphic form (accidentally conditioned here into horse, there into goat, pig, or what not). But these views of his need not exclude his simultaneous belief in the Corn Spirit as a being anthropomorphic, "Mother Earth," or "Mother Grain," as we follow the common etymology; or that of Mannhardt ([Greek text]) [Greek text]="barley-mother"). If I am right, poetry and the higher religion moved from the first on the line of the anthropomorphic Lady of the Harvest and the Corn, Mother Barley: while the popular folk- lore of the Corn Spirit (which found utterance in the mirth of harvesting, and in the magic ritual for ensuring fertility), followed on the line of the pig. At some seasons, and in some ceremonies, the pig represented the genius of the corn: in general, the Lady of the Corn was--Demeter. We really need not believe that the two forms of the genius of the corn were ever _consciously_ identified. Demeter never was a Pig! {66} "The Peruvians, we are told, believed all useful plants to be animated by a divine being who causes their growth," says Mr. Frazer. {67} The genealogical table, then, in my opinion, is:-- Divine Being of the Grain. | +---------+--------------------------+ | | (_Anthropomorphized_). (_Zoomorphised_). Mother of Corn. Pig, Horse, Demeter. and so on. Thus the Greek genius had other and better materials to work on, in evolving Demeter, than the rather lowly animal which is associated with her rites. If any one objects that animal gods always precede anthropomorphic gods in evolution, we reply that, in the most archaic of known races, the deities are represented in human guise at the Mysteries, though there are animal Totems, and though, in myth, the deity may, and often does, assume shapes of bird or beast. {68} Among rites of the backward races, none, perhaps, so closely resembles the Eleusinian Mysteries as the tradition of the Pawnees. In Attica, Hades, Lord of the Dead, ravishes away Persephone, the vernal daughter of Demeter. Demeter then wanders among men, and is hospitably received by Celeus, King of Eleusis. Baffled in her endeavour to make his son immortal, she demands a temple, where she sits in wrath, blighting the grain. She is reconciled by the restoration of her daughter, at the command of Zeus. But for a third of the year Persephone, having tasted a pomegranate seed in Hades, has to reign as Queen of the Dead, beneath the earth. Scenes from this tale were, no doubt, enacted at the Mysteries, with interludes of buffoonery, such as relieved most ancient and all savage Mysteries. The allegory of the year's death and renewal probably afforded a text for some discourse, or spectacle, concerned with the future life. Among the Pawnees, not a mother and daughter, but two primal beings, brothers, named Manabozho and Chibiabos, are the chief characters. The Manitos (spirits or gods) drown Chibiabos. Manabozho mourns and smears his face with black, as Demeter wears black raiment. He laments Chibiabos ceaselessly till the Manitos propitiate him with gifts and ceremonies. They offer to him a cup, like the beverage prepared for Demeter, in the Hymn, by Iambe. He drinks it, is glad, washes off the black stain of mourning, and is himself again, while Earth again is joyous. The Manitos restore Chibiabos to life; but, having once died, he may not enter the temple, or "Medicine Lodge." He is sent to reign over the souls of the departed as does Persephone. Manabozho makes offerings to Mesukkumikokwi, the "Earth Mother" of the Pawnees. The story is enacted in the sacred dances of the Pawnees. {69} The Pawnee ideas have fallen, with singularly accurate coincidence, into the same lines as those of early Greece. Some moderns, such as M. Foucart, have revived the opinion of Herodotus, that the Mysteries were brought from Greece to Egypt. But, as the Pawnee example shows, similar natural phenomena may anywhere beget similar myths and rites. In Greece the _donnee_ was a nature myth, and a ritual in which it was enacted. That ritual was a form of sympathetic magic, and the myth explained the performances. The refinement and charm of the legend (on which Homer, as we saw, does not touch) is due to the unique genius of Greece. Demeter became the deity most familiar to the people, nearest to their hearts and endowed with most temples; every farm possessing her rural shrine. But the Chthonian, or funereal, aspect of Chibiabos, or of Persephone, is due to a mood very distinct from that which sacrifices pigs as embodiments of the Corn Spirit, if that be the real origin of the practice. We should much misconceive the religious spirit of the Greek rite if we undertook to develop it all out an origin in sympathetic magic: which, of course, I do not understand Mr. Frazer to do. Greek scholars, again, are apt to view these researches into savage or barbaric origins with great distaste and disfavour. This is not a scientific frame of mind. In the absence of such researches other purely fanciful origins have been invented by scholars, ancient or modern. It is necessary to return to the pedestrian facts, if merely in order to demonstrate the futility of the fancies. The result is in no way discreditable to Greece. Beginning, like other peoples, with the vague unrealised conception of the Corn Mother (an idea which could not occur before the agricultural stage of civilisation), the Greeks refined and elevated the idea into the Demeter of the Hymn, and of the Cnidian statue. To do this was the result of their unique gifts as a race. Meanwhile the other notion of a Ruler of Souls, in Greece attached to Persephone, is found among peoples not yet agricultural: nomads living on grubs, roots, seeds of wild grasses, and the products of the chase. Almost all men's ideas are as old as mankind, so far as we know mankind. Conceptions originally "half-conscious," and purely popular, as of a Spirit of Vegetation, incarnate, as it were, in each year's growth, were next handled by conscious poets, like the author of our Hymn, and then are "realised as abstract symbols, because intensely characteristic examples of moral, or spiritual conditions." {72} Thus Demeter and Persephone, no longer pigs or Grain-Mothers, "lend themselves to the elevation and the correction of the sentiments of sorrow and awe, by the presentment to the senses and imagination of an ideal expression of them. Demeter cannot but seem the type of divine grief. Persephone is the Goddess of Death, yet with a promise of life to come." That the Eleusinia included an ethical element seems undeniable. This one would think probable, _a priori_, on the ground that Greek Mysteries are an embellished survival of the initiatory rites of savages, which do contain elements of morality. This I have argued at some length in "Myth, Ritual, and Religion." Many strange customs in some Greek Mysteries, such as the daubing of the initiate with clay, the use of the [Greek text] (the Australian _Tundun_, a small piece of wood whirled noisily by a string), the general suggestion of _a new life_, the flogging of boys at Sparta, their retreat, each with his instructor (Australian _kabbo_, Greek [Greek text]) to the forests, are precisely analogous to things found in Australia, America, and Africa. Now savage rites are often associated with what we think gross cruelty, and, as in Fiji, with abandoned license, of which the Fathers also accuse the Greeks. But, among the Yao of Central Africa, the initiator, observes Mr. Macdonald, "is said to give much good advice. His lectures condemn selfishness, and a selfish person is called _mwisichana_, that is, 'uninitiated.'" {74a} Among the Australians, Dampier, in 1688, observed the singular unselfish generosity of distribution of food to the old, the weak, and the sick. According to Mr. Howitt, the boys of the Coast Murring tribe are taught in the Mysteries "to speak the straightforward truth while being initiated, and are warned to avoid various offences against propriety and morality." The method of instruction is bad, a pantomimic representation of the sin to be avoided, but the intention is excellent. {74b} Among the Kurnai respect for the old, for unprotected women, the duty of unselfishness, and other ethical ideas are inculcated, {74c} while certain food taboos prevail during the rite, as was also the case in the Eleusinia. That this moral idea of "sharing what they have with their friends" is not confined merely to the tribe, is proved by the experience of John Finnegan, a white man lost near Moreton Bay early in this century. "At all times, whether they had much or little, fish or kangaroo, they always gave me as much as I could eat." Even when the whites stole the fish of the natives, and were detected, "instead of attempting to repossess themselves of the fish, they instantly set at work to procure more for us, and one or two fetched us as much _dingowa_ as they could carry." {75} The first English settlers in Virginia, on the other hand, when some native stole a cup, burned down the whole town. Thus the morality of the savage is not merely tribal (as is often alleged), and is carried into practice, as well as inculcated, in some regions, not in all, during the Mysteries. For these reasons, if the Greek Mysteries be survivals of savage ceremonies (as there is no reason to doubt that they are), the savage association of moral instruction with mummeries might survive as easily as anything else. That it did survive is plain from numerous passages in classical authors. {76a} The initiate "live a pious life in regard to strangers and citizens." They are to be "conscious of no evil": they are to "protect such as have wrought no unrighteousness." Such precepts "have their root in the ethico-religious consciousness." {76b} It is not mere ritual purity that the Mysteries demand, either among naked Australians, or Yao, or in Greece. Lobeck did his best to minimise the testimony to the higher element in the Eleusinia, but without avail. The study of early, barbaric, savage, classical, Egyptian, or Indian religions should not be one-sided. Men have always been men, for good as well as for evil; and religion, almost everywhere, is allied with ethics no less than it is overrun by the parasite of myth, and the survival of magic in ritual. The Mother and the Maid were "Saviours" ([Greek text]), "holy" and "pure," despite contradictory legends. {77} The tales of incest, as between Zeus and Persephone, are the result of the genealogical mania. The Gods were grouped in family-relationships, to account for their companionship in ritual, and each birth postulated an amour. None the less the same deities offered "salvation," of a sort, and were patrons of conduct. Greek religion was thus not destitute of certain chief elements in our own. But these were held in solution, with a host of other warring elements, lustful, cruel, or buffooning. These elements Greece was powerless to shake off; philosophers, by various expedients, might explain away the contradictory myths which overgrew the religion, but ritual, the luck of the State, and popular credulity, were tenacious of the whole strange mingling of beliefs and practices. * * * * * The view taken of the Eleusinia in this note is hardly so exalted as that of Dr. Hatch. "The main underlying conception of initiation was that there were elements in human life from which the candidate must purify himself before he could be fit to approach God." The need of purification, ritual and moral, is certain, but one is not aware of anything in the purely popular or priestly religion of Greece which exactly answers to our word "God" as used in the passage cited. Individuals, by dint of piety or of speculation, might approach the conception, and probably many did, both in and out of the philosophic schools. But traditional ritual and myth could scarcely rise to this ideal; and it seems exaggerated to say of the crowded Eleusinian throng of pilgrims that "the race of mankind was lifted on to a higher plane when it came to be taught that only the pure in heart can see God." {78} The black native boys in Australia pass through a purgative ceremony to cure them of selfishness, and afterwards the initiator points to the blue vault of sky, bidding them behold "Our Father, Mungan-ngaur." This is very well meant, and very creditable to untutored savages: and creditable ideas were not absent from the Eleusinia. But when we use the quotation, "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God," our meaning, though not very definite, is a meaning which it would be hazardous to attribute to a black boy,--or to Sophocles. The idea of the New Life appears to occur in Australian Mysteries: a tribesman is buried, and rises at a given signal. But here the New Life is rather that of the lad admitted to full tribal privileges (including moral precepts) than that of a converted character. Confirmation, rather than conversion, is the analogy. The number of those analogies of ancient and savage with Christian religion is remarkable. But even in Greek Mysteries the conceptions are necessarily not so purely spiritual as in the Christian creed, of which they seem half-conscious and fragmentary anticipations. Or we may regard them as suggestions, which Christianity selected, accepted, and purified. HYMN TO DEMETER THE ALLEGED EGYPTIAN ORIGINS In what has been said as to the Greek Mysteries, I have regarded them as of native origin. I have exhibited rites of analogous kinds in the germ, as it were, among savage and barbaric communities. In Peru, under the Incas, we actually find Mama and Cora (Demeter and Kore) as Goddesses of the maize (Acosta), and for rites of sympathetic magic connected with the production of fertile harvests (as in the Thesmophoria at Athens) it is enough to refer to the vast collection in Mr. Frazer's "Golden Bough." I have also indicated the closest of all known parallels to the Eleusinian in a medicine-dance and legend of the Pawnees. For other savage Mysteries in which a moral element occurs, I have quoted Australian and African examples. Thence I have inferred that the early Greeks might, and probably did, evolve their multiform mystic rites out of germs of such things inherited from their own prehistoric ancestors. No process, on the other hand, of borrowing from Greece can conceivably account for the Pawnee and Peruvian rites, so closely analogous to those of Hellas. Therefore I see no reason why, if Egypt, for instance, presents parallels to the Eleusinia, we should suppose that the prehistoric Greeks borrowed the Eleusinia from Egypt. These things can grow up, autochthonous and underived, out of the soil of human nature anywhere, granting certain social conditions. Monsieur Foucart, however, has lately argued in favour of an Egyptian origin of the Eleusinia. {82} The Greeks naturally identified Demeter and Dionysus with Isis and Osiris. There were analogies in the figures and the legends, and that was enough. So, had the Greeks visited America, they would have recognised Demeter in the Pawnee Earth Mother, and Persephone or Eubouleus in Chibiabos. To account for the similarities they would probably have invented a fable of Pawnee visitors to Greece, or of Greek missionaries among the Pawnees. So they were apt to form a theory of an Egyptian origin of Dionysus and Demeter. M. Foucart, however, argues that agriculture, corn-growing at least, came into Greece at one stride, barley and wheat not being indigenous in a wild state. The Greeks, however, may have brought grain in their original national migration (the Greek words for grain and ploughing are common to other families of Aryan speech) or obtained it from Phoenician settlements. Demeter, however, in M. Foucart's theory, would be the Goddess of the foreigners who carried the grain first to Hellas. Now both the Homeric epics and the Egyptian monuments show us Egypt and Greece in contact in the Greek prehistoric period. But it does not exactly follow that the prehistoric Greeks would adopt Egyptian gods; or that the Thesmophoria, an Athenian harvest-rite of Demeter, was founded by colonists from Egypt, answering to the daughters of Danaus. {84} Egyptians certainly did not introduce the similar rite among the Khonds, or the Incas. The rites _could_ grow up without importation, as the result of the similarities of primitive fancy everywhere. If Isis is Lady of the Grain in Egypt, so is Mama in Peru, and Demeter need no more have been imported from Egypt than Mama. If Osiris taught the arts of life and the laws of society in Egypt, so did Daramulun in Australia, and Yehl in British Columbia. All the gods and culture heroes everywhere play this _role_--in regions where importation of the idea from Egypt is utterly out of the question. Even in minute details, legends recur everywhere; the _phallus_ of a mutilated Australian being of the fabulous "Alcheringa time," is hunted for by his wives; exactly as Isis wanders in search of the _phallus_ of the mutilated Osiris. {85a} Is anything in the Demeter legend so like the Isis legend as this Australian coincidence? Yet the Arunta did not borrow it from Egypt. {85b} The mere fact, again, that there were Mysteries both in Egypt and Greece proves nothing. There is a river in Monmouth, and a river in Macedon; there are Mysteries in almost all religions. Again, it is argued, the Gods of the Mysteries in Egypt and Greece had secret names, only revealed to the initiated. So, too, in Australia, women (never initiated) and boys before initiation, know Daramulun only as Papang (Father). {85c} The uninitiated among the Kurnai do not know the sacred name, Mungan-ngaur. {85d} The Australian did not borrow this secrecy from Egypt. Everywhere a mystery is kept up about proper names. M. Foucart seems to think that what is practically universal, a taboo on names, can only have reached Greece by transplantation from Egypt. {86a} To the anthropologist it seems that scholars, in ignoring the universal ideas of the lower races, run the risk of venturing on theories at once superficial and untenable. M. Foucart has another argument, which does not seem more convincing, though it probably lights up the humorous or indecent side of the Eleusinia. Isocrates speaks of "good offices" rendered to Demeter by "our ancestors," which "can only be told to the initiate." {86b} Now these cannot be the kindly deeds reported in the Hymn, for these were publicly proclaimed. What, then, were the _secret_ good offices? In one version of the legend the hosts of Demeter were not Celeus and Metaneira, but Dusaules and Baubo. The part of Baubo was to relieve the gloom of the Goddess, not by the harmless pleasantries of Iambe, in the Hymn, but by obscene gestures. The Christian Fathers, Clemens of Alexandria at least, make this a part of their attack on the Mysteries; but it may be said that they were prejudiced or misinformed. {87a} But, says M. Foucart, an inscription has been found in Paros, wherein there is a dedication to Hera, Demeter Thesmophoros, Kore, and _Babo_, or Baubo. Again, two authors of the fourth century, Palaephatus and Asclepiades, cite the Dusaules and Baubo legend. {87b} Now the indecent gesture of Baubo was part of the comic or obscene folk- lore of contempt in Egypt, and so M. Foucart thinks that it was borrowed from Egypt with the Demeter legend. {87c} Can Isocrates have referred to _this_ good office?--the amusing of Demeter by an obscene gesture? If he did, such gestures as Baubo's are as widely diffused as any other piece of folk-lore. In the centre of the Australian desert Mr. Carnegie saw a native make a derisive gesture which he thought had only been known to English schoolboys. {88a} Again, indecent pantomimic dances, said to be intended to act as "object lessons" in things _not_ to be done, are common in Australian Mysteries. Further, we do not know Baubo, or a counterpart of her, in the ritual of Isis, and the clay figurines of such a figure, in Egypt, are of the Greek, the Ptolemaic period. Thus the evidence comes to this: an indecent gesture of contempt, known in Egypt, is, at Eleusis, attributed to Baubo. This does not prove that Baubo was originally Egyptian. {88b} Certain traditions make Demeter the mistress of Celeus. {88c} Traces of a "mystic marriage," which also occur, are not necessarily Egyptian: the idea and rite are common. There remains the question of the sacred objects displayed (possibly statues, probably very ancient "medicine" things, as among the Pawnees) and sacred words spoken. These are said by many authors to confirm the initiate in their security of hope as to a future life. Now similar instruction, as to the details of the soul's voyage, the dangers to avoid, the precautions to be taken, notoriously occur in the Egyptian "Book of the Dead." But very similar fancies are reported from the Ojibbeways (Kohl), the Polynesians and Maoris (Taylor, Turner, Gill, Thomson), the early peoples of Virginia, {89a} the modern Arapaho and Sioux of the Ghost Dance rite, the Aztecs, and so forth. In all countries these details are said to have been revealed by men or women who died, but did not (like Persephone) taste the food of the dead; and so were enabled to return to earth. The initiate, at Eleusis, were guided along a theatrically arranged pathway of the dead, into a theatrical Elysium. {89b} Now as such ideas as these occur among races utterly removed from contact with Egypt, as they are part of the European folk-lore of the visits of mortals to fairyland (in which it is fatal to taste fairy food), I do not see that Eleusis need have borrowed such common elements of early belief from the Egyptians in the seventh century B.C. {90} One might as well attribute to Egypt the Finnish legend of the descent of Wainamoinen into Tuonela; or the experience of the aunt of Montezuma just before the arrival of Cortes; or the expedition to fairyland of Thomas the Rhymer. It is not pretended by M. Foucart that the _details_ of the "Book of the Dead" were copied in Greek ritual; and the general idea of a river to cross, of dangerous monsters to avoid, of perils to encounter, of precautions to be taken by the wandering soul, is nearly universal, where it must be unborrowed from Egypt, in Polynesian and Red Indian belief. As at Eleusis, in these remote tribes formulas of a preservative character are inculcated. The "Book of the Dead" was a guidebook of the itinerary of Egyptian souls. Very probably similar instruction was given to the initiate at Eleusis. But the Fijians also have a regular theory of what is to be done and avoided on "The Path of the Shades." The shade is ferried by Ceba (Charon) over Wainiyalo (Lethe); he reaches the mystic pandanus tree (here occurs a rite); he meets, and dodges, Drodroyalo and the two devouring Goddesses; he comes to a spring, and drinks, and forgets sorrow at Wai-na-dula, the "Water of Solace." After half-a-dozen other probations and terrors, he reaches the Gods, "the dancing-ground and the white quicksand; and then the young Gods dance before them and sing. . . . " {91a} Now turn to Plutarch. {91b} Plutarch compares the soul's mortal experience with that of the initiate in the Mysteries. "There are wanderings, darkness, fear, trembling, shuddering, horror, then a marvellous light: pure places and meadows, dances, songs, and holy apparitions." Plutarch might be summarising the Fijian belief. Again, take the mystic golden scroll, found in a Greek grave at Petilia. It describes in hexameters the Path of the Shade: the spring and the white cypress on the left: "Do not approach it. Go to the other stream from the Lake of Memory; tell the Guardians that you are the child of Earth and of the starry sky, but that yours is a heavenly lineage; and they will give you to drink of that water, and you shall reign with the other heroes." Tree, and spring, and peaceful place with dance, song, and divine apparitions, all are Fijian, all are Greek, yet nothing is borrowed by Fiji from Greece. Many other Greek inscriptions cited by M. Foucart attest similar beliefs. Very probably such precepts as those of the Petilia scroll were among the secret instructions of Eleusis. But they are not so much Egyptian as human. Chibiabos is assuredly not borrowed from Osiris, nor the Fijian faith from the "Book of the Dead." "Sacred things," not to be shown to man, still less to woman, date from the "medicine bag" of the Red Indian, the mystic tribal bundles of the Pawnees, and the _churinga_, and bark "native portmanteaux," of which Mr. Carnegie brought several from the Australian desert. [Demeter and Persephone sending Triptolemos on his mission. Marble relief found at Eleusis--now in Athens: lang92.jpg] For all Greek Mysteries a satisfactory savage analogy can be found. These spring straight from human nature: from the desire to place customs, and duties, and taboos under divine protection; from the need of strengthening them, and the influence of the elders, by mystic sanctions; from the need of fortifying and trying the young by probations of strength, secrecy, and fortitude; from the magical expulsion of hostile influences; from the sympathetic magic of early agriculture; from study of the processes of nature regarded as personal; and from guesses, surmises, visions, and dreams as to the fortunes of the wandering soul on its way to its final home. I have shown all these things to be human, universal, not sprung from one race in one region. Greek Mysteries are based on all these natural early conceptions of life and death. The early Greeks, like other races, entertained these primitive, or very archaic ideas. Greece had no need to borrow from Egypt; and, though Egypt was within reach, Greece probably developed freely her original stock of ideas in her own fashion, just as did the Incas, Aztecs, Australians, Ojibbeways, and the other remote peoples whom I have selected. The argument of M. Foucart, I think, is only good as long as we are ignorant of the universally diffused forms of religious belief which correspond to the creeds of Eleusis or of Egypt. In the Greek Mysteries we have the Greek guise,--solemn, wistful, hopeful, holy, and pure, yet not uncontaminated with archaic buffoonery,--of notions and rites, hopes and fears, common to all mankind. There is no other secret. The same arguments as I have advanced against Greek borrowing from Egypt, apply to Greek borrowing from Asia. Mr. Ramsay, following Mr. Robertson Smith, suggests that Leto, the mother of Apollo and Artemis, may be "the old Semitic Al-lat." {95a} Then we have Leto and Artemis, as the Mother and the Maid (Kore) with their mystery play. "Clement describes them" (the details) as "Eleusinian, for they had spread to Eleusis as the rites of Demeter and Kore _crossing from Asia to Crete, and from Crete to the European_ peninsula." The ritual "remained everywhere fundamentally the same." Obviously if the Eleusinian Mysteries are of Phrygian origin (Ramsay), they cannot also be of Egyptian origin (Foucart). In truth they are no more specially of Phrygian or Egyptian than of Pawnee or Peruvian origin. Mankind can and does evolve such ideas and rites in any region of the world. {95b} CONCLUSION "What has all this farrago about savages to do with Dionysus?" I conceive some scholar, or literary critic asking, if such an one looks into this book. Certainly it would have been easier for me to abound in aesthetic criticism of the Hymns, and on the aspect of Greek literary art which they illustrate. But the Hymns, if read even through the pale medium of a translation, speak for themselves. Their beauties and defects as poetry are patent: patent, too, are the charm and geniality of the national character which they express. The glad Ionian gatherings; the archaic humour; the delight in life, and love, and nature; the pious domesticities of the sacred Hearth; the peopling of woods, hills, and streams with exquisite fairy forms; all these make the poetic delight of the Hymns. But all these need no pointing out to any reader. The poets can speak for themselves. On the other hand the confusions of sacred and profane; the origins of the Mysteries; the beginnings of the Gods in a mental condition long left behind by Greece when the Hymns were composed; all these matters need elucidation. I have tried to elucidate them as results of evolution from the remote prehistoric past of Greece, which, as it seems, must in many points have been identical with the historic present of the lowest contemporary races. In the same way, if dealing with ornament, I would derive the spirals, volutes, and concentric circles of Mycenaean gold work, from the identical motives, on the oldest incised rocks and kists of our Islands, of North and South America, and of the tribes of Central Australia, recently described by Messrs. Spencer and Gillen, and Mr. Carnegie. The material of the Mycenaean artist may be gold, his work may be elegant and firm, but he traces the selfsame ornament as the naked Arunta, with feebler hand, paints on sacred rocks or on the bodies of his tribesmen. What is true of ornament is true of myth, rite, and belief. Greece only offers a gracious modification of the beliefs, rites, and myths of the races who now are "nearest the beginning," however remote from that unknown beginning they may be. To understand this is to come closer to a true conception of the evolution of Greek faith and art than we can reach by any other path. Yet to insist on this is not to ignore the unmeasured advance of the Greeks in development of society and art. On that head the Hymns, like all Greek poetry, bear their own free testimony. But, none the less, Greek religion and myth present features repellent to us, which derive their origin, not from savagery, but from the more crude horrors of the lower and higher barbarisms. Greek religion, Greek myth, are vast conglomerates. We find a savage origin for Apollo, and savage origins for many of the Mysteries. But the cruelty of savage initiations has been purified away. On the other hand, we find a barbaric origin for departmental gods, such as Aphrodite, and for Greek human sacrifices, unknown to the lowest savagery. From savagery Zeus is probably derived; from savagery come the germs of the legends of divine amours in animal forms. But from barbarism arises the sympathetic magic of agriculture, which the lowest races do not practise. From the barbaric condition, not from savagery, comes Greek hero-worship, for the lowest races do not worship ancestral spirits. Such is the medley of prehistoric ideas in Greece, while the charm and poetry of the Hymns are due mainly to the unique genius of the fully developed Hellenic race. The combination of good and bad, of ancestral rites and ideas, of native taste, of philosophical refinement on inherited theology, could not last; the elements were too discordant. And yet it could not pass naturally away. The Greece of A.D. 300 "Wandered between two worlds, one dead, The other powerless to be born," without external assistance. That help was brought by the Christian creed, and, officially, Gods, rites, and myths vanished, while, unofficially, they partially endure, even to this day, in Romaic folk- lore. HOMERIC HYMNS HYMN TO APOLLO [Silver stater of Croton (about 400 B.C.). Obv. Hercules, the Founder. Rev. Apollo shooting the Python by the Delphic Tripod: lang103.jpg] Mindful, ever mindful, will I be of Apollo the Far-darter. Before him, as he fares through the hall of Zeus, the Gods tremble, yea, rise up all from their thrones as he draws near with his shining bended bow. But Leto alone abides by Zeus, the Lord of Lightning, till Apollo hath slackened his bow and closed his quiver. Then, taking with her hands from his mighty shoulders the bow and quiver, she hangs them against the pillar beside his father's seat from a pin of gold, and leads him to his place and seats him there, while the father welcomes his dear son, giving him nectar in a golden cup; then do the other Gods welcome him; then they make him sit, and Lady Leto rejoices, in that she bore the Lord of the Bow, her mighty son. [Hail! O blessed Leto; mother of glorious children, Prince Apollo and Artemis the Archer; her in Ortygia, him in rocky Delos didst thou bear, couching against the long sweep of the Cynthian Hill, beside a palm tree, by the streams of Inopus.] [Leto. With her infants, Apollo and Artemis. From a Vase in the British Museum. (Sixth Century B.C.): lang104.jpg] How shall I hymn thee aright, howbeit thou art, in sooth, not hard to hymn? {104} for to thee, Phoebus, everywhere have fallen all the ranges of song, both on the mainland, nurse of young kine, and among the isles; to thee all the cliffs are dear, and the steep mountain crests and rivers running onward to the salt sea, and beaches sloping to the foam, and havens of the deep? Shall I tell how Leto bore thee first, a delight of men, couched by the Cynthian Hill in the rocky island, in sea-girt Delos--on either hand the black wave drives landward at the word of the shrill winds--whence arising thou art Lord over all mortals? Among them that dwell in Crete, and the people of Athens, and isle AEgina, and Euboea famed for fleets, and AEgae and Peiresiae, and Peparethus by the sea-strand, and Thracian Athos, and the tall crests of Pelion, and Thracian Samos, and the shadowy mountains of Ida, Scyros, and Phocaea, and the mountain wall of Aigocane, and stablished Imbros, and inhospitable Lemnos, and goodly Lesbos, the seat of Makar son of AEolus, and Chios, brightest of all islands of the deep, and craggy Mimas, and the steep crests of Mykale, and gleaming Claros, and the high hills of AEsagee, and watery Samos, and tall ridges of Mycale, and Miletus, and Cos, a city of Meropian men, and steep Cnidos, and windy Carpathus, Naxos and Paros, and rocky Rheneia--so far in travail with the Archer God went Leto, seeking if perchance any land would build a house for her son. But the lands trembled sore, and were adread, and none, nay not the richest, dared to welcome Phoebus, not till Lady Leto set foot on Delos, and speaking winged words besought her: "Delos, would that thou wert minded to be the seat of my Son, Phoebus Apollo, and to let build him therein a rich temple! No other God will touch thee, nor none will honour thee, for methinks thou art not to be well seen in cattle or in sheep, in fruit or grain, nor wilt thou grow plants unnumbered. But wert thou to possess a temple of Apollo the Far- darter; then would all men bring thee hecatombs, gathering to thee, and ever wilt thou have savour of sacrifice . . . from others' hands, albeit thy soil is poor." Thus spoke she, and Delos was glad and answered her saying: "Leto, daughter most renowned of mighty Coeus, right gladly would I welcome the birth of the Archer Prince, for verily of me there goes an evil report among men, and thus would I wax mightiest of renown. But at this Word, Leto, I tremble, nor will I hide it from thee, for the saying is that Apollo will be mighty of mood, and mightily will lord it over mortals and immortals far and wide over the earth, the grain-giver. Therefore, I deeply dread in heart and soul lest, when first he looks upon the sunlight, he disdain my island, for rocky of soil am I, and spurn me with his feet and drive me down in the gulfs of the salt sea. Then should a great sea-wave wash mightily above my head for ever, but he will fare to another land, which so pleases him, to fashion him a temple and groves of trees. But in me would many-footed sea-beasts and black seals make their chambers securely, no men dwelling by me. Nay, still, if thou hast the heart, Goddess, to swear a great oath that here first he will build a beautiful temple, to be the shrine oracular of men--thereafter among all men let him raise him shrines, since his renown shall be the widest." So spake she, but Leto swore the great oath of the Gods: "Bear witness, Earth, and the wide heaven above, and dropping water of Styx--the greatest oath and the most dread among the blessed Gods--that verily here shall ever be the fragrant altar and the portion of Apollo, and thee will he honour above all." When she had sworn and done that oath, then Delos was glad in the birth of the Archer Prince. But Leto, for nine days and nine nights continually was pierced with pangs of child-birth beyond all hope. With her were all the Goddesses, the goodliest, Dione and Rheia, and Ichnaean Themis, and Amphitrite of the moaning sea, and the other deathless ones--save white-armed Hera. Alone she wotted not of it, Eilithyia, the helper in difficult travail. For she sat on the crest of Olympus beneath the golden clouds, by the wile of white-armed Hera, who held her afar in jealous grudge, because even then fair-tressed Leto was about bearing her strong and noble son. But the Goddesses sent forth Iris from the fair-stablished isle, to bring Eilithyia, promising her a great necklet, golden with amber studs, nine cubits long. Iris they bade to call Eilithyia apart from white-armed Hera, lest even then the words of Hera might turn her from her going. But wind-footed swift Iris heard, and fleeted forth, and swiftly she devoured the space between. So soon as she came to steep Olympus, the dwelling of the Gods, she called forth Eilithyia from hall to door, and spake winged words, even all that the Goddesses of Olympian mansions had bidden her. Thereby she won the heart in Eilithyia's breast, and forth they fared, like timid wild doves in their going. Even when Eilithyia, the helper in sore travailing, set foot in Delos, then labour took hold on Leto, and a passion to bring to the birth. Around a palm tree she cast her arms, and set her knees on the soft meadow, while earth beneath smiled, and forth leaped the babe to light, and all the Goddesses raised a cry. Then, great Phoebus, the Goddesses washed thee in fair water, holy and purely, and wound thee in white swaddling bands, delicate, new woven, with a golden girdle round thee. Nor did his mother suckle Apollo the golden-sworded, but Themis with immortal hands first touched his lips with nectar and sweet ambrosia, while Leto rejoiced, in that she had borne her strong son, the bearer of the bow. Then Phoebus, as soon as thou hadst tasted the food of Paradise, the golden bands were not proof against thy pantings, nor bonds could bind thee, but all their ends were loosened. Straightway among the Goddesses spoke Phoebus Apollo: "Mine be the dear lyre and bended bow, and I will utter to men the unerring counsel of Zeus." So speaking, he began to fare over the wide ways of earth, Phoebus of the locks unshorn, Phoebus the Far-darter. Thereon all the Goddesses were in amaze, and all Delos blossomed with gold, as when a hilltop is heavy with woodland flowers, beholding the child of Zeus and Leto, and glad because the God had chosen her wherein to set his home, beyond mainland and isles, and loved her most at heart. But thyself, O Prince of the Silver Bow, far-darting Apollo, didst now pass over rocky Cynthus, now wander among temples and men. Many are thy fanes and groves, and dear are all the headlands, and high peaks of lofty hills, and rivers flowing onward to the sea; but with Delos, Phoebus, art thou most delighted at heart, where the long-robed Ionians gather in thine honour, with children and shame-fast wives. Mindful of thee they delight thee with boxing, and dances, and minstrelsy in their games. Who so then encountered them at the gathering of the Ionians, would say that they are exempt from eld and death, beholding them so gracious, and would be glad at heart, looking on the men and fair-girdled women, and their much wealth, and their swift galleys. Moreover, there is this great marvel of renown imperishable, the Delian damsels, hand-maidens of the Far-darter. They, when first they have hymned Apollo, and next Leto and Artemis the Archer, then sing in memory of the men and women of old time, enchanting the tribes of mortals. And they are skilled to mimic the notes and dance music of all men, so that each would say himself were singing, so well woven is their fair chant. But now come, be gracious, Apollo, be gracious, Artemis; and ye maidens all, farewell, but remember me even in time to come, when any of earthly men, yea, any stranger that much hath seen and much endured, comes hither and asks: "Maidens, who is the sweetest to you of singers here conversant, and in whose song are ye most glad?" Then do you all with one voice make answer: "A blind man is he, and he dwells in rocky Chios; his songs will ever have the mastery, ay, in all time to come." But I shall bear my renown of you as far as I wander over earth to the fairest cities of men, and they will believe my report, for my word is true. But, for me, never shall I cease singing of Apollo of the Silver Bow, the Far-darter, whom fair-tressed Leto bore. O Prince, Lycia is thine, and pleasant Maeonia, and Miletus, a winsome city by the sea, and thou, too, art the mighty lord of sea-washed Delos. THE FOUNDING OF DELPHI The son of glorious Leto fares harping on his hollow harp to rocky Pytho, clad in his fragrant raiment that waxes not old, and beneath the golden plectrum winsomely sounds his lyre. Thence from earth to Olympus, fleet as thought, he goes to the House of Zeus, into the Consistory of the other Gods, and anon the Immortals bethink them of harp and minstrelsy. And all the Muses together with sweet voice in antiphonal chant replying, sing of the imperishable gifts of the Gods, and the sufferings of men, all that they endure from the hands of the undying Gods, lives witless and helpless, men unavailing to find remede for death or buckler against old age. Then the fair-tressed Graces and boon Hours, and Harmonia, and Hebe, and Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, dance, holding each by the wrist the other's hand, while among them sings one neither unlovely, nor of body contemptible, but divinely tall and fair, Artemis the Archer, nurtured with Apollo. Among them sport Ares, and the keen-eyed Bane of Argos, while Phoebus Apollo steps high and disposedly, playing the lyre, and the light issues round him from twinkling feet and fair-woven raiment. But all they are glad, seeing him so high of heart, Leto of the golden tresses, and Zeus the Counsellor, beholding their dear son as he takes his pastime among the deathless Gods. How shall I hymn thee aright, howbeit thou art, in sooth, not hard to hymn? Shall I sing of thee in love and dalliance; how thou wentest forth to woo the maiden Azanian, with Ischys, peer of Gods, and Elation's son of the goodly steeds, or with Phorbas, son of Triopes, or Amarynthus, or how with Leucippus and Leucippus' wife, thyself on foot, he in the chariot . . .? {115} Or how first, seeking a place of oracle for men, thou camest down to earth, far-darting Apollo? On Pieria first didst thou descend from Olympus, and pass by Lacmus, and Emathia, and Enienae, and through Perrhaebia, and speedily camest to Iolcus, and alight on Cenaeum in Euboea, renowned for galleys. On the Lelantian plain thou stoodest, but it pleased thee not there to stablish a temple and a grove. Thence thou didst cross Euripus, far-darting Apollo, and fare up the green hill divine, and thence camest speedily to Mycalessus and Teumesos of the bedded meadow grass, and thence to the place of woodclad Thebe, for as yet no mortals dwelt in Holy Thebe, nor yet were paths nor ways along Thebe's wheat-bearing plain, but all was wild wood. Thence forward journeying, Apollo, thou camest to Onchestus, the bright grove of Poseidon. There the new-broken colt takes breath again, weary though he be with dragging the goodly chariot; and to earth, skilled though he be, leaps down the charioteer, and fares on foot, while the horses for a while rattle along the empty car, with the reins on their necks, and if the car be broken in the grove of trees, their masters tend them there, and tilt the car and let it lie. Such is the rite from of old, and they pray to the King Poseidon, while the chariot is the God's portion to keep. Thence faring forward, far-darting Apollo, thou didst win to Cephisus of the fair streams, that from Lilaea pours down his beautiful waters, which crossing, Far-darter, and passing Ocalea of the towers, thou camest thereafter to grassy Haliartus. Then didst thou set foot on Telphusa, and to thee the land seemed exceeding good wherein to stablish a temple and a grove. Beside Telphusa didst thou stand, and spake to her: "Telphusa, here methinketh to stablish a fair temple, an oracle for men, who, ever seeking for the word of sooth, will bring me hither perfect hecatombs, even they that dwell in the rich isle of Pelops, and all they of the mainland and sea-girt islands. To them all shall I speak the decree unerring, rendering oracles within my rich temple." So spake Phoebus, and thoroughly marked out the foundations, right long and wide. But at the sight the heart of Telphusa waxed wroth, and she spake her word: "Phoebus, far-darting Prince, a word shall I set in thy heart. Here thinkest thou to stablish a goodly temple, to be a place of oracle for men, that ever will bring thee hither perfect hecatombs--nay, but this will I tell thee, and do thou lay it up in thine heart. The never-ending din of swift steeds will be a weariness to thee, and the watering of mules from my sacred springs. There men will choose rather to regard the well-wrought chariots, and the stamping of the swift-footed steeds, than thy great temple and much wealth therein. But an if thou--that art greater and better than I, O Prince, and thy strength is most of might--if thou wilt listen to me, in Crisa build thy fane beneath a glade of Parnassus. There neither will goodly chariots ring, nor wilt thou be vexed with stamping of swift steeds about thy well-builded altar, but none the less shall the renowned tribes of men bring their gifts to Iepaeon, and delighted shalt thou gather the sacrifices of them who dwell around." Therewith she won over the heart of the Far-darter, even that to Telphusa herself should be honour in that land, and not to the Far-darter. Thenceforward didst thou fare, far-darting Apollo, and camest to the city of the overweening Phlegyae, that reckless of Zeus dwelt there in a goodly glade by the Cephisian mere. Thence fleetly didst thou speed to the ridge of the hills, and camest to Crisa beneath snowy Parnassus, to a knoll that faced westward, but above it hangs a cliff, and a hollow dell runs under, rough with wood, and even there Prince Phoebus Apollo deemed well to build a goodly temple, and spake, saying: "Here methinketh to stablish a right fair temple, to be a place oracular to men, that shall ever bring me hither goodly hecatombs, both they that dwell in rich Peloponnesus, and they of the mainland and sea-girt isles, seeking here the word of sooth; to them all shall I speak the decree unerring, rendering oracles within my wealthy shrine." So speaking, Phoebus Apollo marked out the foundations, right long and wide, and thereon Trophonius and Agamedes laid the threshold of stone, the sons of Erginus, dear to the deathless Gods. But round all the countless tribes of men built a temple with wrought stones to be famous for ever in song. Hard by is a fair-flowing stream, and there, with an arrow from his strong bow, did the Prince, the son of Zeus, slay the Dragoness, mighty and huge, a wild Etin, that was wont to wreak many woes on earthly men, on themselves, and their straight-stepping flocks, so dread a bane was she. [This Dragoness it was that took from golden-throned Hera and reared the dread Typhaon, not to be dealt with, a bane to mortals. Him did Hera bear, upon a time, in wrath with father Zeus, whenas Cronides brought forth from his head renowned Athene. Straightway lady Hera was angered, and spake among the assembled Gods: "Listen to me, ye Gods, and Goddesses all, how cloud-collecting Zeus is first to begin the dishonouring of me, though he made me his wife in honour. And now, apart from me, he has brought forth grey-eyed Athene who excels among all the blessed Immortals. But he was feeble from the birth, among all the Gods, my son Hephaestos, lame and withered of foot, whom I myself lifted in my hands, and cast into the wide sea. But the daughter of Nereus, Thetis of the silver feet, received him and nurtured him among her sisters. Would that she had done other grace to the blessed Immortals! "Thou evil one of many wiles, what other wile devisest thou? How hadst thou the heart now alone to bear grey-eyed Athene? Could I not have borne her? But none the less would she have been called thine among the Immortals, who hold the wide heaven. Take heed now, that I devise not for thee some evil to come. Yea, now shall I use arts whereby a child of mine shall be born, excelling among the immortal Gods, without dishonouring thy sacred bed or mine, for verily to thy bed I will not come, but far from thee will nurse my grudge against the Immortal Gods." So spake she, and withdrew from among the Gods with angered heart. Right so she made her prayer, the ox-eyed lady Hera, striking the earth with her hand flatlings, {121} and spake her word: "Listen to me now, Earth, and wide Heavens above, and ye Gods called Titans, dwelling beneath earth in great Tartarus, ye from whom spring Gods and men! List to me now, all of you, and give me a child apart from Zeus, yet nothing inferior to him in might, nay, stronger than he, as much as far-seeing Zeus is mightier than Cronus!" So spake she, and smote the ground with her firm hand. Then Earth, the nurse of life, was stirred, and Hera, beholding it, was glad at heart, for she deemed that her prayer would be accomplished. From that hour for a full year she never came to the bed of wise Zeus, nor to her throne adorned, whereon she was wont to sit, planning deep counsel, but dwelling in her temples, the homes of Prayers, she took joy in her sacrifices, the ox-eyed lady Hera. Now when her months and days were fulfilled, the year revolving, and the seasons in their course coming round, she bare a birth like neither Gods nor mortals, the dread Typhaon, not to be dealt with, a bane of men. Him now she took, the ox-eyed lady Hera, and carried and gave to the Dragoness, to bitter nurse a bitter fosterling, who received him, that ever wrought many wrongs among the renowned tribes of men.] Whosoever met the Dragoness, on him would she bring the day of destiny, before the Prince, far-darting Apollo, loosed at her the destroying shaft; then writhing in strong anguish, and mightily panting she lay, rolling about the land. Dread and dire was the din, as she writhed hither and thither through the wood, and gave up the ghost, and Phoebus spoke his malison: "There do thou rot upon the fruitful earth; no longer shalt thou, at least, live to be the evil bane of mortals that eat the fruit of the fertile soil, and hither shall bring perfect hecatombs. Surely from thee neither shall Typhoeus, nay, nor Chimaera of the evil name, shield death that layeth low, but here shall black earth and bright Hyperion make thee waste away." So he spake in malison, and darkness veiled her eyes, and there the sacred strength of the sun did waste her quite away. Whence now the place is named Pytho, and men call the Prince "Pythian" for that deed, for even there the might of the swift sun made corrupt the monster. {124} Then Phoebus Apollo was ware in his heart that the fair-flowing spring, Telphusa, had beguiled him, and in wrath he went to her, and swiftly came, and standing close by her, spoke his word: "Telphusa, thou wert not destined to beguile my mind, nor keep the winsome lands and pour forth thy fair waters. Nay, here shall my honour also dwell, not thine alone." So he spoke, and overset a rock, with a shower of stones, and hid her streams, the Prince, far-darting Apollo. And he made an altar in a grove of trees, hard by the fair-flowing stream, where all men name him in prayer, "the Prince Telphusian," for that he shamed the streams of sacred Telphusa. Then Phoebus Apollo considered in his heart what men he should bring in to be his ministers, and to serve him in rocky Pytho. While he was pondering on this, he beheld a swift ship on the wine-dark sea, and aboard her many men and good, Cretans from Minoan Cnossus, such as do sacrifice to the God, and speak the doom of Phoebus Apollo of the Golden Sword, what word soever he utters of sooth from the daphne in the dells of Parnassus. For barter and wealth they were sailing in the black ship to sandy Pylos, and the Pylian men. Anon Phoebus Apollo set forth to meet them, leaping into the sea upon the swift ship in the guise of a dolphin, and there he lay, a portent great and terrible. [Of the crew, whosoever sought in heart to comprehend what he was . . . On all sides he kept swaying to and fro, and shaking the timbers of the galley.] But all they sat silent and in fear aboard the ship, nor loosed the sheets, nor the sail of the black-prowed galley; nay, even as they had first set the sails so they voyaged onward, the strong south-wind speeding on the vessel from behind. First they rounded Malea, and passed the Laconian land and came to Helos, a citadel by the sea, and Taenarus, the land of Helios, that is the joy of mortals, where ever feed the deep- fleeced flocks of Prince Helios, and there hath he his glad demesne. There the crew thought to stay the galley, and land and consider of the marvel, and see whether that strange thing will abide on the deck of the hollow ship or leap again into the swell of the fishes' home. But the well-wrought ship did not obey the rudder, but kept ever on her way beyond rich Peloponnesus, Prince Apollo lightly guiding it by the gale. So accomplishing her course she came to Arene, and pleasant Arguphea, and Thryon, the ford of Alpheius, and well-builded Aepu, and sandy Pylos, and the Pylian men, and ran by Crounoi, and Chalcis, and Dyme, and holy Elis, where the Epeians bear sway. Then rejoicing in the breeze of Zeus, she was making for Pherae, when to them out of the clouds showed forth the steep ridge of Ithaca, and Dulichium, and Same, and wooded Zacynthus. Anon when she had passed beyond all Peloponnesus, there straightway, off Crisa, appeared the wide sound, that bounds rich Peloponnesus. Then came on the west wind, clear and strong, by the counsel of Zeus, blowing hard out of heaven, that the running ship might swiftest accomplish her course over the salt water of the sea. Backward then they sailed towards the Dawn and the sun, and the Prince was their guide, Apollo, son of Zeus. Then came they to far-seen Crisa, the land of vines, into the haven, while the sea-faring ship beached herself on the shingle. Then from the ship leaped the Prince, far-darting Apollo, like a star at high noon, while the gledes of fire flew from him, and the splendour flashed to the heavens. Into his inmost Holy Place he went through the precious tripods, and in the midst he kindled a flame showering forth his shafts, and the splendour filled all Crisa, {127} and the wives of the Crisaeans, and their fair-girdled daughters raised a wail at the rushing flight of Phoebus, for great fear fell upon all. Thence again to the galley he set forth and flew, fleet as a thought, in shape a man lusty and strong, in his first youth, his locks swathing his wide shoulders. Anon he spake to the seamen winged words: "Strangers, who are ye, whence sail ye the wet ways? Is it after merchandise, or do ye wander at adventure, over the salt sea, as sea-robbers use, that roam staking their own lives, and bearing bane to men of strange speech? Why sit ye thus adread, not faring forth on the land, nor slackening the gear of your black ship? Sure this is the wont of toilsome mariners, when they come from the deep to the land in their black ship, foredone with labour, and anon a longing for sweet food seizes their hearts." So spake he, and put courage in their breasts, and the leader of the Cretans answered him, saying: "Stranger, behold thou art no whit like unto mortal men in shape or growth, but art a peer of the Immortals, wherefore all hail, and grace be thine, and all good things at the hands of the Gods. Tell me then truly that I may know indeed, what people is this, what land, what mortals dwell here? Surely with our thoughts set on another goal we sailed the great sea to Pylos from Crete, whence we boast our lineage; but now it is hither that we have come, maugre our wills, with our galley--another path and other ways--we longing to return, but some God has led us all unwilling to this place." Then the far-darting Apollo answered them: "Strangers, who dwelt aforetime round wooded Cnossus, never again shall ye return each to his pleasant city and his own house, and his wife, but here shall ye hold my rich temple, honoured by multitudes of men. Lo! I am the son of Zeus, and name myself Apollo, and hither have I brought you over the great gulf of the sea, with no evil intent. Nay, here shall ye possess my rich temple, held highest in honour among all men, and ye shall know the counsels of the Immortals, by whose will ye shall ever be held in renown. But now come, and instantly obey my word. First lower the sails, and loose the sheets, and then beach the black ship on the land, taking forth the wares and gear of the trim galley, and build ye an altar on the strand of the sea. Thereon kindle fire, and sprinkle above in sacrifice the white barley-flour, and thereafter pray, standing around the altar. And whereas I first, in the misty sea, sprang aboard the swift ship in the guise of a dolphin, therefore pray to me as Apollo Delphinius, while mine shall ever be the Delphian altar seen from afar. Then take ye supper beside the swift black ship, and pour libations to the blessed Gods who hold Olympus. But when ye have dismissed the desire of sweet food then with me do ye come, singing the Paean, till ye win that place where ye shall possess the rich temple." So spake he, while they heard and obeyed eagerly. First they lowered the sails, loosing the sheets, and lowering the mast by the forestays, they laid it in the mast-stead, and themselves went forth on the strand of the sea. Then forth from the salt sea to the mainland they dragged the fleet ship high up on the sands, laying long sleepers thereunder, and they builded an altar on the sea-strand, and lit fire thereon, scattering above white barley-flour in sacrifice, and, standing around the altar, they prayed as the God commanded. Anon they took supper beside the fleet black ship, and poured forth libations to the blessed Gods who hold Olympus. But when they had dismissed the desire of meat and drink they set forth on their way, and the Prince Apollo guided them, harp in hand, and sweetly he harped, faring with high and goodly strides. Dancing in his train the Cretans followed to Pytho, and the Paean they were chanting, the paeans of the Cretans in whose breasts the Muse hath put honey-sweet song. All unwearied they strode to the hill, and swiftly were got to Parnassus and a winsome land, where they were to dwell, honoured of many among men. Apollo guided them, and showed his holy shrine and rich temple, and the spirit was moved in their breasts, and the captain of the Cretans spake, and asked the God, saying: "Prince, since thou hast led us far from friends and our own country, for so it pleases thee, how now shall we live, we pray thee tell us. This fair land bears not vines, nor is rich in meadows, wherefrom we might live well, and minister to men." Then, smiling, Apollo, the son of Zeus, spoke to them: "Foolish ones, enduring hearts, who desire cares, and sore toil, and all straits! A light word will I speak to you, do ye consider it. Let each one of you, knife in right hand, be ever slaughtering sheep that in abundance shall ever be yours, all the flocks that the renowned tribes of men bring hither to me. Yours it is to guard my temple, and receive the tribes of men that gather hither, doing, above all, as my will enjoins. But if any vain word be spoken, or vain deed wrought, or violence after the manner of mortal men, then shall others be your masters, and hold you in thraldom for ever. {133} I have spoken all, do thou keep it in thy heart." Even so, fare thou well, son of Zeus and Leto, but I shall remember both thee and another song. II. HERMES Of Hermes sing, O Muse, the son of Zeus and Maia, Lord of Cyllene, and Arcadia rich in sheep, the fortune-bearing Herald of the Gods, him whom Maia bore, the fair-tressed nymph, that lay in the arms of Zeus; a shamefaced nymph was she, shunning the assembly of the blessed Gods, dwelling within a shadowy cave. Therein was Cronion wont to embrace the fair-tressed nymph in the deep of night, when sweet sleep held white-armed Hera, the immortal Gods knowing it not, nor mortal men. But when the mind of great Zeus was fulfilled, and over _her_ the tenth moon stood in the sky, the babe was born to light, and all was made manifest; yea, then she bore a child of many a wile and cunning counsel, a robber, a driver of the kine, a captain of raiders, a watcher of the night, a thief of the gates, who soon should show forth deeds renowned among the deathless Gods. Born in the dawn, by midday well he harped, and in the evening stole the cattle of Apollo the Far-darter, on that fourth day of the month wherein lady Maia bore him. Who, when he leaped from the immortal knees of his mother, lay not long in the sacred cradle, but sped forth to seek the cattle of Apollo, crossing the threshold of the high-roofed cave. There found he a tortoise, and won endless delight, for lo, it was Hermes that first made of the tortoise a minstrel. The creature met him at the outer door, as she fed on the rich grass in front of the dwelling, waddling along, at sight whereof the luck- bringing son of Zeus laughed, and straightway spoke, saying: "Lo, a lucky omen for me, not by me to be mocked! Hail, darling and dancer, friend of the feast, welcome art thou! whence gatst thou the gay garment, a speckled shell, thou, a mountain-dwelling tortoise? Nay, I will carry thee within, and a boon shalt thou be to me, not by me to be scorned, nay, thou shalt first serve my turn. Best it is to bide at home, since danger is abroad. Living shalt thou be a spell against ill witchery, and dead, then a right sweet music-maker." [Hermes making the lyre. Bronze relief in the British Museum (Fourth Century B.C.): lang136.jpg] So spake he, and raising in both hands the tortoise, went back within the dwelling, bearing the glad treasure. Then he choked the creature, and with a gouge of grey iron he scooped out the marrow of the hill tortoise. And as a swift thought wings through the breast of one that crowding cares are haunting, or as bright glances fleet from the eyes, so swiftly devised renowned Hermes both deed and word. He cut to measure stalks of reed, and fixed them in through holes bored in the stony shell of the tortoise, and cunningly stretched round it the hide of an ox, and put in the horns of the lyre, and to both he fitted the bridge, and stretched seven harmonious chords of sheep-gut. {136} Then took he his treasure, when he had fashioned it, and touched the strings in turn with the _plectrum_, and wondrously it sounded under his hand, and fair sang the God to the notes, improvising his chant as he played, like lads exchanging taunts at festivals. Of Zeus Cronides and fair-sandalled Maia he sang how they had lived in loving dalliance, and he told out the tale of his begetting, and sang the handmaids and the goodly halls of the Nymph, and the tripods in the house, and the store of cauldrons. So then he sang, but dreamed of other deeds; then bore he the hollow lyre and laid it in the sacred cradle, then, in longing for flesh of kine he sped from the fragrant hall to a place of outlook, with such a design in his heart as reiving men pursue in the dark of night. The sun had sunk down beneath earth into ocean, with horses and chariot, when Hermes came running to the shadowy hills of Pieria, where the deathless kine of the blessed Gods had ever their haunt; there fed they on the fair unshorn meadows. From their number did the keen-sighted Argeiphontes, son of Maia, cut off fifty loud-lowing kine, and drove them hither and thither over the sandy land, reversing their tracks, and, mindful of his cunning, confused the hoof-marks, the front behind, the hind in front, and himself fared down again. Straightway he wove sandals on the sea-sand (things undreamed he wrought, works wonderful, unspeakable) mingling myrtle twigs and tamarisk, then binding together a bundle of the fresh young wood, he shrewdly fastened it for light sandals beneath his feet, leaves and all, {138}--brushwood that the renowned slayer of Argos had plucked on his way from Pieria [being, as he was, in haste, down the long way]. Then an old man that was labouring a fruitful vineyard, marked the God faring down to the plain through grassy Onchestus, and to him spoke first the son of renowned Maia: "Old man that bowest thy shoulders over thy hoeing, verily thou shalt have wine enough when all these vines are bearing. . . . See thou, and see not; hear thou, and hear not; be silent, so long as naught of thine is harmed." Therewith he drave on together the sturdy heads of cattle. And over many a shadowy hill, and through echoing corries and flowering plains drave renowned Hermes. Then stayed for the more part his darkling ally, the sacred Night, and swiftly came morning when men can work, and sacred Selene, daughter of Pallas, mighty prince, clomb to a new place of outlook, and then the strong son of Zeus drave the broad-browed kine of Phoebus Apollo to the river Alpheius. Unwearied they came to the high- roofed stall and the watering-places in front of the fair meadow. There, when he had foddered the deep-voiced kine, he herded them huddled together into the byre, munching lotus and dewy marsh marigold; next brought he much wood, and set himself to the craft of fire-kindling. Taking a goodly shoot of the daphne, he peeled it with the knife, fitting it to his hand, {140} and the hot vapour of smoke arose. [Lo, it was Hermes first who gave fire, and the fire-sticks.] Then took he many dry faggots, great plenty, and piled them in the trench, and flame began to break, sending far the breath of burning fire. And when the force of renowned Hephaestus kept the fire aflame, then downward dragged he, so mighty his strength, two bellowing kine of twisted horn: close up to the fire he dragged them, and cast them both panting upon their backs to the ground. [Then bending over them he turned them upwards and cut their throats] . . . task upon task, and sliced off the fat meat, pierced it with spits of wood, and broiled it,--flesh, and chine, the joint of honour, and blood in the bowels, all together;--then laid all there in its place. The hides he stretched out on a broken rock, as even now they are used, such as are to be enduring: long, and long after that ancient day. {141a} Anon glad Hermes dragged the fat portions on to a smooth ledge, and cut twelve messes sorted out by lot, to each its due meed he gave. Then a longing for the rite of the sacrifice of flesh came on renowned Hermes: for the sweet savour irked him, immortal as he was, but not even so did his strong heart yield. {141b} . . . The fat and flesh he placed in the high-roofed stall, the rest he swiftly raised aloft, a trophy of his reiving, and, gathering dry faggots, he burned heads and feet entire with the vapour of flame. Anon when the God had duly finished all, he cast his sandals into the deep swirling pool of Alpheius, quenched the embers, and all night long spread smooth the black dust: Selene lighting him with her lovely light. Back to the crests of Cyllene came the God at dawn, nor blessed God, on that long way, nor mortal man encountered him; nay, and no dog barked. Then Hermes, son of Zeus, bearer of boon, bowed his head, and entered the hall through the hole of the bolt, like mist on the breath of autumn. Then, standing erect, he sped to the rich inmost chamber of the cave, lightly treading noiseless on the floor. Quickly to his cradle came glorious Hermes and wrapped the swaddling bands about his shoulders, like a witless babe, playing with the wrapper about his knees. So lay he, guarding his dear lyre at his left hand. But his Goddess mother the God did not deceive; she spake, saying: "Wherefore, thou cunning one, and whence comest thou in the night, thou clad in shamelessness? Anon, methinks, thou wilt go forth at Apollo's hands with bonds about thy sides that may not be broken, sooner than be a robber in the glens. Go to, wretch, thy Father begat thee for a trouble to deathless Gods and mortal men." But Hermes answered her with words of guile: "Mother mine, why wouldst thou scare me so, as though I were a redeless child, with little craft in his heart, a trembling babe that dreads his mother's chidings? Nay, but I will essay the wiliest craft to feed thee and me for ever. We twain are not to endure to abide here, of all the deathless Gods alone unapproached with sacrifice and prayer, as thou commandest. Better it is eternally to be conversant with Immortals, richly, nobly, well seen in wealth of grain, than to be homekeepers in a darkling cave. And for honour, I too will have my dues of sacrifice, even as Apollo. Even if my Father give it me not I will endeavour, for I am of avail, to be a captain of reivers. And if the son of renowned Leto make inquest for me, methinks some worse thing will befall him. For to Pytho I will go, to break into his great house, whence I shall sack goodly tripods and cauldrons enough, and gold, and gleaming iron, and much raiment. Thyself, if thou hast a mind, shalt see it." So held they converse one with another, the son of Zeus of the AEgis, and Lady Maia. Then Morning the Daughter of Dawn was arising from the deep stream of Oceanus, bearing light to mortals, what time Apollo came to Onchestus in his journeying, the gracious grove, a holy place of the loud Girdler of the Earth: there he found an old man grazing his ox, the stay of his vineyard, on the roadside. {144} Him first bespoke the son of renowned Leto. "Old man, hedger of grassy Onchestus; hither am I come seeking cattle from Pieria, all the crook-horned kine out of my herd: my black bull was wont to graze apart from the rest, and my four bright-eyed hounds followed, four of them, wise as men and all of one mind. These were left, the hounds and the bull, a marvel; but the kine wandered away from their soft meadow and sweet pasture, at the going down of the sun. Tell me, thou old man of ancient days, if thou hast seen any man faring after these cattle?" Then to him the old man spake and answered: "My friend, hard it were to tell all that a man may see: for many wayfarers go by, some full of ill intent, and some of good: and it is difficult to be certain regarding each. Nevertheless, the whole day long till sunset I was digging about my vineyard plot, and methought I marked--but I know not surely--a child that went after the horned kine; right young he was, and held a staff, and kept going from side to side, and backwards he drove the kine, their faces fronting him." So spake the old man, but Apollo heard, and went fleeter on his path. Then marked he a bird long of wing, and anon he knew that the thief had been the son of Zeus Cronion. Swiftly sped the Prince, Apollo, son of Zeus, to goodly Pylos, seeking the shambling kine, while his broad shoulders were swathed in purple cloud. Then the Far-darter marked the tracks, and spake: "Verily, a great marvel mine eyes behold! These be the tracks of high- horned kine, but all are turned back to the meadow of asphodel. But these are not the footsteps of a man, nay, nor of a woman, nor of grey wolves, nor bears, nor lions, nor, methinks, of a shaggy-maned Centaur, whosoever with fleet feet makes such mighty strides! Dread to see they are that backwards go, more dread they that go forwards." So speaking, the Prince sped on, Apollo, son of Zeus. To the Cyllenian hill he came, that is clad in forests, to the deep shadow of the hollow rock, where the deathless nymph brought forth the child of Zeus Cronion. A fragrance sweet was spread about the goodly hill, and many tall sheep were grazing the grass. Thence he went fleetly over the stone threshold into the dusky cave, even Apollo, the Far-darter. Now when the son of Zeus and Maia beheld Apollo thus in wrath for his kine, he sank down within his fragrant swaddling bands, being covered as piled embers of burnt tree-roots are covered by thick ashes, so Hermes coiled himself up, when he saw the Far-darter; and curled himself, feet, head, and hands, into small space [summoning sweet sleep], though of a verity wide awake, and his tortoise-shell he kept beneath his armpit. But the son of Zeus and Leto marked them well, the lovely mountain nymph and her dear son, a little babe, all wrapped in cunning wiles. Gazing round all the chamber of the vasty dwelling, Apollo opened three aumbries with the shining key; full were they of nectar and glad ambrosia, and much gold and silver lay within, and much raiment of the Nymph, purple and glistering, such as are within the dwellings of the mighty Gods. Anon, when he had searched out the chambers of the great hall, the son of Leto spake to renowned Hermes: "Child, in the cradle lying, tell me straightway of my kine: or speedily between us twain will be unseemly strife. For I will seize thee and cast thee into murky Tartarus, into the darkness of doom where none is of avail. Nor shall thy father or mother redeem thee to the light: nay, under earth shalt thou roam, a reiver among folk fordone." Then Hermes answered with words of craft: "Apollo, what ungentle word hast thou spoken? And is it thy cattle of the homestead thou comest here to seek? I saw them not, heard not of them, gave ear to no word of them: of them I can tell no tidings, nor win the fee of him who tells. Not like a lifter of cattle, a stalwart man, am I: no task is this of mine: hitherto I have other cares; sleep, and mother's milk, and about my shoulders swaddling bands, and warmed baths. Let none know whence this feud arose! And verily great marvel among the Immortals it would be, that a new-born child should cross the threshold after kine of the homestead; a silly rede of thine. Yesterday was I born, my feet are tender, and rough is the earth below. But if thou wilt I shall swear the great oath by my father's head, that neither I myself am to blame, nor have I seen any other thief of thy kine: be kine what they may, for I know but by hearsay." So spake he with twinkling eyes, and twisted brows, glancing hither and thither, with long-drawn whistling breath, hearing Apollo's word as a vain thing. Then lightly laughing spake Apollo the Far-darter: "Oh, thou rogue, thou crafty one; verily methinks that many a time thou wilt break into stablished homes, and by night leave many a man bare, silently pilling through his house, such is thy speech to-day! And many herdsmen of the steadings wilt thou vex in the mountain glens, when in lust for flesh thou comest on the herds and sheep thick of fleece. Nay come, lest thou sleep the last and longest slumber, come forth from thy cradle, thou companion of black night! For surely this honour hereafter thou shalt have among the Immortals, to be called for ever the captain of reivers." So spake Phoebus Apollo, and lifted the child, but even then strong Argus- bane had his device, and, in the hands of the God, let forth an Omen, an evil belly-tenant, with tidings of worse, and a speedy sneeze thereafter. Apollo heard, and dropped renowned Hermes on the ground, then sat down before him, eager as he was to be gone, chiding Hermes, and thus he spoke: "Take heart, swaddling one, child of Zeus and Maia. By these thine Omens shall I find anon the sturdy kine, and thou shalt lead the way." So spake he, but swiftly arose Cyllenian Hermes, and swiftly fared, pulling about his ears his swaddling bands that were his shoulder wrapping. Then spake he: "Whither bearest thou me, Far-darter, of Gods most vehement? Is it for wrath about thy kine that thou thus provokest me? Would that the race of kine might perish, for thy cattle have I not stolen, nor seen another steal, whatsoever kine may be; I know but by hearsay, I! But let our suit be judged before Zeus Cronion." Now were lone Hermes and the splendid son of Leto point by point disputing their pleas, Apollo with sure knowledge was righteously seeking to convict renowned Hermes for the sake of his kine, but he with craft and cunning words sought to beguile,--the Cyllenian to beguile the God of the Silver Bow. But when the wily one found one as wily, then speedily he strode forward through the sand in front, while behind came the son of Zeus and Leto. Swiftly they came to the crests of fragrant Olympus, to father Cronion they came, these goodly sons of Zeus, for there were set for them the balances of doom. Quiet was snowy Olympus, but they who know not decay or death were gathering after gold-throned Dawn. Then stood Hermes and Apollo of the Silver Bow before the knees of Zeus, the Thunderer, who inquired of his glorious Son, saying: "Phoebus, whence drivest thou such mighty spoil, a new-born babe like a Herald? A mighty matter this, to come before the gathering of the Gods!" Then answered him the Prince, Apollo the Far-darter: "Father, anon shalt thou hear no empty tale; tauntest thou me, as though I were the only lover of booty? This boy have I found, a finished reiver, in the hills of Cyllene, a long way to wander; so fine a knave as I know not among Gods or men, of all robbers on earth. My kine he stole from the meadows, and went driving them at eventide along the loud sea shores, straight to Pylos. Wondrous were the tracks, a thing to marvel on, work of a glorious god. For the black dust showed the tracks of the kine making backward to the mead of asphodel; but this child intractable fared neither on hands nor feet, through the sandy land, but this other strange craft had he, to tread the paths as if shod on with oaken shoots. {153} While he drove the kine through a land of sand, right plain to discern were all the tracks in the dust, but when he had crossed the great tract of sand, straightway on hard ground his traces and those of the kine were ill to discern. But a mortal man beheld him, driving straight to Pylos the cattle broad of brow. Now when he had stalled the kine in quiet, and confused his tracks on either side the way, he lay dark as night in his cradle, in the dusk of a shadowy cave. The keenest eagle could not have spied him, and much he rubbed his eyes, with crafty purpose, and bluntly spake his word: "I saw not, I heard not aught, nor learned another's tale; nor tidings could I give, nor win reward of tidings." Therewith Phoebus Apollo sat him down, but another tale did Hermes tell, among the Immortals, addressing Cronion, the master of all Gods: "Father Zeus, verily the truth will I tell thee: for true am I, nor know the way of falsehood. To-day at sunrise came Apollo to our house, seeking his shambling kine. No witnesses of the Gods brought he, nor no Gods who had seen the fact. But he bade me declare the thing under duress, threatening oft to cast me into wide Tartarus, for he wears the tender flower of glorious youth, but I was born but yesterday, as well himself doth know, and in naught am I like a stalwart lifter of kine. Believe, for thou givest thyself out to be my father, that may I never be well if I drove home the kine, nay, or crossed the threshold. This I say for sooth! The Sun I greatly revere, and other gods, and Thee I love, and _him_ I dread. Nay, thyself knowest that I am not to blame; and thereto I will add a great oath: by these fair-wrought porches of the Gods I am guiltless, and one day yet I shall avenge me on him for this pitiless accusation, mighty as he is; but do thou aid the younger!" So spake Cyllenian Argus-bane, and winked, with his wrapping on his arm: he did not cast it down. But Zeus laughed aloud at the sight of his evil- witted child, so well and wittily he pled denial about the kine. Then bade he them both be of one mind, and so seek the cattle, with Hermes as guide to lead the way, and show without guile where he had hidden the sturdy kine. The Son of Cronos nodded, and glorious Hermes obeyed, for lightly persuadeth the counsel of Zeus of the AEgis. Then sped both of them, the fair children of Zeus, to sandy Pylos, at the ford of Alpheius, and to the fields they came, and the stall of lofty roof, where the booty was tended in the season of darkness. There anon Hermes went to the side of the rocky cave, and began driving the sturdy cattle into the light. But the son of Leto, glancing aside, saw the flayed skins on the high rock, and quickly asked renowned Hermes: "How wert thou of avail, oh crafty one, to flay two kine; new-born and childish as thou art? For time to come I dread thy might: no need for thee to be growing long, thou son of Maia!" {156} [So spake he, and round his hands twisted strong bands of withes, but they at his feet were soon intertwined, each with other, and lightly were they woven over all the kine of the field, by the counsel of thievish Hermes, but Apollo marvelled at that he saw.] Then the strong Argus-bane with twinkling glances looked down at the ground, wishful to hide his purpose. But that harsh son of renowned Leto, the Far-darter, did he lightly soothe to his will; taking his lyre in his left hand he tuned it with the _plectrum_: and wondrously it rang beneath his hand. Thereat Phoebus Apollo laughed and was glad, and the winsome note passed through to his very soul as he heard. Then Maia's son took courage, and sweetly harping with his harp he stood at Apollo's left side, playing his prelude, and thereon followed his winsome voice. He sang the renowns of the deathless Gods, and the dark Earth, how all things were at the first, and how each God gat his portion. To Mnemosyne first of Gods he gave the meed of minstrelsy, to the Mother of the Muses, for the Muse came upon the Son of Maia. Then all the rest of the Immortals, in order of rank and birth, did he honour, the splendid son of Zeus, telling duly all the tale, as he struck the lyre on his arm. But on Apollo's heart in his breast came the stress of desire, who spake to him winged words: "Thou crafty slayer of kine, thou comrade of the feast; thy song is worth the price of fifty oxen! Henceforth, methinks, shall we be peacefully made at one. But, come now, tell me this, thou wily Son of Maia, have these marvels been with thee even since thy birth, or is it that some immortal, or some mortal man, has given thee the glorious gift and shown thee song divine? For marvellous is this new song in mine ears, such as, methinks, none hath known, either of men, or of Immortals who have mansions in Olympus, save thyself, thou reiver, thou Son of Zeus and Maia! What art is this, what charm against the stress of cares? What a path of song! for verily here is choice of all three things, joy, and love, and sweet sleep. For truly though I be conversant with the Olympian Muses, to whom dances are a charge, and the bright minstrel hymn, and rich song, and the lovesome sound of flutes, yet never yet hath aught else been so dear to my heart, dear as the skill in the festivals of the Gods. I marvel, Son of Zeus, at this, the music of thy minstrelsy. But now since, despite thy youth, thou hast such glorious skill, to thee and to thy Mother I speak this word of sooth: verily, by this shaft of cornel wood, I shall lead thee renowned and fortunate among the Immortals, and give thee glorious gifts, nor in the end deceive thee." Then Hermes answered him with cunning words: "Shrewdly thou questionest me, Far-darter, nor do I grudge thee to enter upon mine art. This day shalt thou know it: and to thee would I fain be kind in word and will: but within thyself thou well knowest all things, for first among the Immortals, Son of Zeus, is thy place. Mighty art thou and strong, and Zeus of wise counsels loves thee well with reverence due, and hath given thee honour and goodly gifts. Nay, they tell that thou knowest soothsaying, Far-darter, by the voice of Zeus: for from Zeus are all oracles, wherein I myself now know thee to be all-wise. Thy province it is to know what so thou wilt. Since, then, thy heart bids thee play the lyre, harp thou and sing, and let joys be thy care, taking this gift from me; and to me, friend, gain glory. Sweetly sing with my shrill comrade in thy hands, that knoweth speech good and fair and in order due. Freely do thou bear it hereafter into the glad feast, and the winsome dance, and the glorious revel, a joy by night and day. Whatsoever skilled hand shall inquire of it artfully and wisely, surely its voice shall teach him all things joyous, being easily played by gentle practice, fleeing dull toil. But if an unskilled hand first impetuously inquires of it, vain and discordant shall the false notes sound. But thine it is of nature to know what things thou wilt: so to thee will I give this lyre, thou glorious son of Zeus. But we for our part will let graze thy cattle of the field on the pastures of hill and plain, thou Far- darter. So shall the kine, consorting with the bulls, bring forth calves male and female, great store, and no need there is that thou, wise as thou art, should be vehement in anger." So spake he, and held forth the lyre that Phoebus Apollo took, and pledged his shining whip in the hands of Hermes, and set him over the herds. Gladly the son of Maia received it; while the glorious son of Leto, Apollo, the Prince, the Far-darter, held the lyre in his left hand, and tuned it orderly with the _plectrum_. Sweetly it sounded to his hand, and fair thereto was the song of the God. Thence anon the twain turned the kine to the rich meadow, but themselves, the glorious children of Zeus, hastened back to snow-clad Olympus, rejoicing in the lyre: ay, and Zeus, the counsellor, was glad of it. [Both did he make one in love, and Hermes loved Leto's son constantly, even as now, since when in knowledge of his love he pledged to the Far-darter the winsome lyre, who held it on his arm and played thereon.] But Hermes withal invented the skill of a new art, the far-heard music of the reed pipes. Then spake the son of Leto to Hermes thus: "I fear me, Son of Maia, thou leader, thou crafty one, lest thou steal from me both my lyre and my bent bow. For this meed thou hast from Zeus, to establish the ways of barter among men on the fruitful earth. Wherefore would that thou shouldst endure to swear me the great oath of the Gods, with a nod of the head or by the showering waters of Styx, that thy doings shall ever to my heart be kind and dear." Then, with a nod of his head, did Maia's son vow that never would he steal the possessions of the Far-darter, nor draw nigh his strong dwelling. And Leto's son made vow and band of love and alliance, that none other among the Gods should be dearer of Gods or men the seed of Zeus. [And I shall make, with thee, a perfect token of a Covenant of all Gods and all men, loyal to my heart and honoured.] {162a} "Thereafter shall I give thee a fair wand of wealth and fortune, a golden wand, three- pointed, which shall guard thee harmless, accomplishing all things good of word and deed that it is mine to learn from the voice of Zeus. {162b} But as touching the art prophetic, oh best of fosterlings of Zeus, concerning which thou inquirest, for thee it is not fit to learn that art, nay, nor for any other Immortal. That lies in the mind of Zeus alone. Myself did make pledge, and promise, and strong oath, that, save me, none other of the eternal Gods should know the secret counsel of Zeus. And thou, my brother of the Golden Wand, bid me not tell thee what awful purposes is planning the far-seeing Zeus. "One mortal shall I harm, and another shall I bless, with many a turn of fortune among hapless men. Of mine oracle shall he have profit whosoever comes in the wake of wings and voice of birds of omen: he shall have profit of mine oracle: him I will not deceive. But whoso, trusting birds not ominous, approaches mine oracle, to inquire beyond my will, and know more than the eternal Gods, shall come, I say, on a bootless journey, yet his gifts shall I receive. Yet another thing will I tell thee, thou Son of renowned Maia and of Zeus of the AEgis, thou bringer of boon; there be certain Thriae, sisters born, three maidens rejoicing in swift wings. Their heads are sprinkled with white barley flour, and they dwell beneath a glade of Parnassus, apart they dwell, teachers of soothsaying. This art I learned while yet a boy I tended the kine, and my Father heeded not. Thence they flit continually hither and thither, feeding on honeycombs and bringing all things to fulfilment. They, when they are full of the spirit of soothsaying, having eaten of the wan honey, delight to speak forth the truth. But if they be bereft of the sweet food divine, then lie they all confusedly. These I bestow on thee, and do thou, inquiring clearly, delight thine own heart, and if thou instruct any man, he will often hearken to thine oracle, if he have the good fortune. {164} These be thine, O Son of Maia, and the cattle of the field with twisted horn do thou tend, and horses, and toilsome mules. . . . And be lord over the burning eyes of lions, and white-toothed swine, and dogs, and sheep that wide earth nourishes, and over all flocks be glorious Hermes lord. And let him alone be herald appointed to Hades, who, though he be giftless, will give him highest gift of honour." With such love, in all kindness, did Apollo pledge the Son of Maia, and thereto Cronion added grace. With all mortals and immortals he consorts. Somewhat doth he bless, but ever through the dark night he beguiles the tribes of mortal men. Hail to thee thus, Son of Zeus and Maia, of thee shall I be mindful and of another lay. III. APHRODITE Tell me, Muse, of the deeds of golden Aphrodite, the Cyprian, who rouses sweet desire among the Immortals, and vanquishes the tribes of deathly men, and birds that wanton in the air, and all beasts, even all the clans that earth nurtures, and all in the sea. To all are dear the deeds of the garlanded Cyprian. [Aphrodite. Marble statue in the Louvre: lang166.jpg] Yet three hearts there be that she cannot persuade or beguile: the daughter of Zeus of the AEgis, grey-eyed Athene: not to her are dear the deeds of golden Aphrodite, but war and the work of Ares, battle and broil, and the mastery of noble arts. First was she to teach earthly men the fashioning of war chariots and cars fair-wrought with bronze. And she teaches to tender maidens in the halls all goodly arts, breathing skill into their minds. Nor ever doth laughter-loving Aphrodite conquer in desire Artemis of the Golden Distaff, rejoicing in the sound of the chase, for the bow and arrow are her delight, and slaughter of the wild beasts on the hills: the lyre, the dance, the clear hunting halloo, and shadowy glens, and cities of righteous men. Nor to the revered maiden Hestia are the feats of Aphrodite a joy, eldest daughter of crooked-counselled Cronos [youngest, too, by the design of Zeus of the AEgis], that lady whom both Poseidon and Apollo sought to win. But she would not, nay stubbornly she refused; and she swore a great oath fulfilled, with her hand on the head of Father Zeus of the AEgis, to be a maiden for ever, that lady Goddess. And to her Father Zeus gave a goodly meed of honour, in lieu of wedlock; and in mid-hall she sat her down choosing the best portion: and in all temples of the Gods is she honoured, and among all mortals is chief of Gods. {168} Of these she cannot win or beguile the hearts. But of all others there is none, of blessed Gods or mortal men, that hath escaped Aphrodite. Yea, even the heart of Zeus the Thunderer she led astray; of him that is greatest of all, and hath the highest lot of honour. Even his wise wit she hath beguiled at her will, and lightly laid him in the arms of mortal women; Hera not wotting of it, his sister and his wife, the fairest in goodliness of beauty among the deathless Goddesses. To highest honour did they beget her, crooked-counselled Cronos and Mother Rheia; and Zeus of imperishable counsel made her his chaste and duteous wife. But into Aphrodite herself Zeus sent sweet desire, to lie in the arms of a mortal man. This wrought he so that anon not even she might be unconversant with a mortal bed, and might not some day with sweet laughter make her boast among all the Gods, the smiling Aphrodite, that she had given the Gods to mortal paramours, and they for deathless Gods bare deathly sons, and that she mingled Goddesses in love with mortal men. Therefore Zeus sent into her heart sweet desire of Anchises, who as then was pasturing his kine on the steep hills of many-fountained Ida, a man in semblance like the Immortals. Him thereafter did smiling Aphrodite see and love, and measureless desire took hold on her heart. To Cyprus wended she, within her fragrant shrine: even to Paphos, where is her sacred garth and odorous altar. Thither went she in, and shut the shining doors, and there the Graces laved and anointed her with oil ambrosial, such as is on the bodies of the eternal Gods, sweet fragrant oil that she had by her. Then clad she her body in goodly raiment, and prinked herself with gold, the smiling Aphrodite; then sped to Troy, leaving fragrant Cyprus, and high among the clouds she swiftly accomplished her way. To many-fountained Ida she came, mother of wild beasts, and made straight for the steading through the mountain, while behind her came fawning the beasts, grey wolves, and lions fiery-eyed, and bears, and swift pards, insatiate pursuers of the roe-deer. Glad was she at the sight of them, and sent desire into their breasts, and they went coupling two by two in the shadowy dells. But she came to the well-builded shielings, {170} and him she found left alone in the shielings with no company, the hero Anchises, graced with beauty from the Gods. All the rest were faring after the kine through the grassy pastures, but he, left lonely at the shielings, walked up and down, harping sweet and shrill. In front of him stood the daughter of Zeus, Aphrodite, in semblance and stature like an unwedded maid, lest he should be adread when he beheld the Goddess. And Anchises marvelled when he beheld her, her height, and beauty, and glistering raiment. For she was clad in vesture more shining than the flame of fire, and with twisted armlets and glistering earrings of flower- fashion. About her delicate neck were lovely jewels, fair and golden: and like the moon's was the light on her fair breasts, and love came upon Anchises, and he spake unto her: "Hail, Queen, whosoever of the Immortals thou art that comest to this house; whether Artemis, or Leto, or golden Aphrodite, or high-born Themis, or grey-eyed Athene. Or perchance thou art one of the Graces come hither, who dwell friendly with the Gods, and have a name to be immortal; or of the nymphs that dwell in this fair glade, or in this fair mountain, and in the well-heads of rivers, and in grassy dells. But to thee on some point of outlook, in a place far seen, will I make an altar, and offer to thee goodly victims in every season. But for thy part be kindly, and grant me to be a man pre-eminent among the Trojans, and give goodly seed of children to follow me; but for me, let me live long, and see the sunlight, and come to the limit of old age, being ever in all things fortunate among men." Then Aphrodite the daughter of Zeus answered him: "Anchises, most renowned of men on earth, behold no Goddess am I,--why likenest thou me to the Immortals?--Nay, mortal am I, and a mortal mother bare me, and my father is famous Otreus, if thou perchance hast heard of him, who reigns over strong-warded Phrygia. Now I well know both your tongue and our own, for a Trojan nurse reared me in the hall, and nurtured me ever, from the day when she took me at my mother's hands, and while I was but a little child. Thus it is, thou seest, that I well know thy tongue as well as my own. But even now the Argus-slayer of the Golden Wand hath ravished me away from the choir of Artemis, the Goddess of the Golden Distaff, who loves the noise of the chase. Many nymphs, and maids beloved of many wooers, were we there at play, and a great circle of people was about us withal. But thence did he bear me away, the Argus-slayer, he of the Golden Wand, and bore me over much tilled land of mortal men, and many wastes unfilled and uninhabited, where wild beasts roam through the shadowy dells. So fleet we passed that I seemed not to touch the fertile earth with my feet. Now Hermes said that I was bidden to be the bride of Anchises, and mother of thy goodly children. But when he had spoken and shown the thing, lo, instantly he went back among the immortal Gods,--the renowned Slayer of Argus. But I come to thee, strong necessity being laid upon me, and by Zeus I beseech thee and thy good parents,--for none ill folk may get such a son as thee,--by them I implore thee to take me, a maiden as I am and untried in love, and show me to thy father and thy discreet mother, and to thy brothers of one lineage with thee. No unseemly daughter to these, and sister to those will I be, but well worthy; and do thou send a messenger swiftly to the Phrygians of the dappled steeds, to tell my father of my fortunes, and my sorrowing mother; gold enough and woven raiment will they send, and many and goodly gifts shall be thy meed. Do thou all this, and then busk the winsome wedding-feast, that is honourable among both men and immortal Gods." So speaking, the Goddess brought sweet desire into his heart, and love came upon Anchises, and he spake, and said: "If indeed thou art mortal and a mortal mother bore thee, and if renowned Otreus is thy father, and if thou art come hither by the will of Hermes, the immortal Guide, and art to be called my wife for ever, then neither mortal man nor immortal God shall hold me from my desire before I lie with thee in love, now and anon; nay, not even if Apollo the Far-darter himself were to send the shafts of sorrow from the silver bow! Nay, thou lady like the Goddesses, willing were I to go down within the house of Hades, if but first I had climbed into thy bed." So spake he and took her hand; while laughter-loving Aphrodite turned, and crept with fair downcast eyes towards the bed. It was strewn for the Prince, as was of wont, with soft garments: and above it lay skins of bears and deep-voiced lions that he had slain in the lofty hills. When then they twain had gone up into the well-wrought bed, first Anchises took from her body her shining jewels, brooches, and twisted armlets, earrings and chains: and he loosed her girdle, and unclad her of her glistering raiment, that he laid on a silver-studded chair. Then through the Gods' will and design, by the immortal Goddess lay the mortal man, not wotting what he did. Now in the hour when herdsmen drive back the kine and sturdy sheep to the steading from the flowery pastures, even then the Goddess poured sweet sleep into Anchises, and clad herself in her goodly raiment. Now when she was wholly clad, the lady Goddess, her head touched the beam of the lofty roof: and from her cheeks shone forth immortal beauty,--even the beauty of fair-garlanded Cytherea. Then she aroused him from sleep, and spake, and said: "Rise, son of Dardanus, why now slumberest thou so deeply? Consider, am I even in aspect such as I was when first thine eyes beheld me?" So spake she, and straightway he started up out of slumber and was adread, and turned his eyes away when he beheld the neck and the fair eyes of Aphrodite. His goodly face he veiled again in a cloak, and imploring her, he spake winged words: "Even so soon as mine eyes first beheld thee, Goddess, I knew thee for divine: but not sooth didst thou speak to me. But by Zeus of the AEgis I implore thee, suffer me not to live a strengthless shadow among men, but pity me: for no man lives in strength that has couched with immortal Goddesses." Then answered him Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus: "Anchises, most renowned of mortal men, take courage, nor fear overmuch. For no fear is there that thou shalt suffer scathe from me, nor from others of the blessed Gods, for dear to the Gods art thou. And to thee shall a dear son be born, and bear sway among the Trojans, and children's children shall arise after him continually. Lo, AENEAS shall his name be called, since dread sorrow held me when I came into the bed of a mortal man. And of all mortal men these who spring from thy race are always nearest to the immortal Gods in beauty and stature; witness how wise-counselling Zeus carried away golden-haired Ganymedes, for his beauty's sake, that he might abide with the Immortals and be the cup-bearer of the Gods in the house of Zeus, a marvellous thing to behold, a mortal honoured among all the Immortals, as he draws the red nectar from the golden mixing-bowl. But grief incurable possessed the heart of Tros, nor knew he whither the wild wind had blown his dear son away, therefore day by day he lamented him continually till Zeus took pity upon him, and gave him as a ransom of his son high-stepping horses that bear the immortal Gods. These he gave him for a gift, and the Guide, the Slayer of Argus, told all these things by the command of Zeus, even how Ganymedes should be for ever exempt from old age and death, even as are the Gods. Now when his father heard this message of Zeus he rejoiced in his heart and lamented no longer, but was gladly charioted by the wind-fleet horses. "So too did Dawn of the Golden Throne carry off Tithonus, a man of your lineage, one like unto the Immortals. Then went she to pray to Cronion, who hath dark clouds for his tabernacle, that her lover might be immortal and exempt from death for ever. Thereto Zeus consented and granted her desire, but foolish of heart was the Lady Dawn, nor did she deem it good to ask for eternal youth for her lover, and to keep him unwrinkled by grievous old age. Now so long as winsome youth was his, in joy did he dwell with the Golden-throned Dawn, the daughter of Morning, at the world's end beside the streams of Oceanus, but so soon as grey hairs began to flow from his fair head and goodly chin, the Lady Dawn held aloof from his bed, but kept and cherished him in her halls, giving him food and ambrosia and beautiful raiment. But when hateful old age had utterly overcome him, and he could not move or lift his limbs, to her this seemed the wisest counsel; she laid him in a chamber, and shut the shining doors, and his voice flows on endlessly, and no strength now is his such as once there was in his limbs. Therefore I would not have thee to be immortal and live for ever in such fashion among the deathless Gods, but if, being such as thou art in beauty and form, thou couldst live on, and be called my lord, then this grief would not overshadow my heart. "But it may not be, for swiftly will pitiless old age come upon thee, old age that standeth close by mortal men; wretched and weary, and detested by the Gods: but among the immortal Gods shall great blame be mine for ever, and all for love of thee. For the Gods were wont to dread my words and wiles wherewith I had subdued all the Immortals to mortal women in love, my purpose overcoming them all; for now, lo you, my mouth will no longer suffice to speak forth this boast among the Immortals, {180} for deep and sore hath been my folly, wretched and not to be named; and distraught have I been who carry a child beneath my girdle, the child of a mortal. Now so soon as he sees the light of the sun the deep-bosomed mountain nymphs will rear him for me; the nymphs who haunt this great and holy mountain, being of the clan neither of mortals nor of immortal Gods. Long is their life, and immortal food do they eat, and they join in the goodly dance with the immortal Gods. With them the Sileni and the keen- sighted Slayer of Argus live in dalliance in the recesses of the darkling caves. At their birth there sprang up pine trees or tall-crested oaks on the fruitful earth, nourishing and fair, and on the lofty mountain they stand, and are called the groves of the immortal Gods, which in no wise doth man cut down with the steel. But when the fate of death approaches, first do the fair trees wither on the ground, and the bark about them moulders, and the twigs fall down, and even as the tree perishes so the soul of the nymph leaves the light of the sun. "These nymphs will keep my child with them and rear him; and him when first he enters on lovely youth shall these Goddesses bring hither to thee, and show thee. But to thee, that I may tell thee all my mind, will I come in the fifth year bringing my son. At the sight of him thou wilt be glad when thou beholdest him with thine eyes, for he will be divinely fair, and thou wilt lead him straightway to windy Ilios. But if any mortal man asketh of thee what mother bare this thy dear son, be mindful to answer him as I command: say that he is thy son by one of the flower- faced nymphs who dwell in this forest-clad mountain, but if in thy folly thou speakest out, and boastest to have been the lover of fair-garlanded Cytherea, then Zeus in his wrath will smite thee with the smouldering thunderbolt. Now all is told to thee: do thou be wise, and keep thy counsel, and speak not my name, but revere the wrath of the Gods." So spake she, and soared up into the windy heaven. Goddess, Queen of well-stablished Cyprus, having given thee honour due, I shall pass on to another hymn. IV. HYMN TO DEMETER [Syracusan medallion by Euainetos. Obv. Head of Persephone. Rev. Victorious Chariot: lang183.jpg] Of fair-tressed Demeter, Demeter holy Goddess, I begin to sing: of her and her slim-ankled daughter whom Hades snatched away, the gift of wide- beholding Zeus, but Demeter knew it not, she that bears the Seasons, the giver of goodly crops. For her daughter was playing with the deep-bosomed maidens of Oceanus, and was gathering flowers--roses, and crocuses, and fair violets in the soft meadow, and lilies, and hyacinths, and the narcissus which the earth brought forth as a snare to the fair- faced maiden, by the counsel of Zeus and to pleasure the Lord with many guests. Wondrously bloomed the flower, a marvel for all to see, whether deathless gods or deathly men. From its root grew forth a hundred blossoms, and with its fragrant odour the wide heaven above and the whole earth laughed, and the salt wave of the sea. Then the maiden marvelled, and stretched forth both her hands to seize the fair plaything, but the wide-wayed earth gaped in the Nysian plain, and up rushed the Prince, the host of many guests, the many-named son of Cronos, with his immortal horses. Maugre her will he seized her, and drave her off weeping in his golden chariot, but she shrilled aloud, calling on Father Cronides, the highest of gods and the best. But no immortal god or deathly man heard the voice of her, . . . save the daughter of Persaeus, Hecate of the shining head-tire, as she was thinking delicate thoughts, who heard the cry from her cave [and Prince Helios, the glorious son of Hyperion], the maiden calling on Father Cronides. But he far off sat apart from the gods in his temple haunted by prayers, receiving goodly victims from mortal men. By the design of Zeus did the brother of Zeus lead the maiden away, the lord of many, the host of many guests, with his deathless horses; right sore against her will, even he of many names the son of Cronos. Now, so long as the Goddess beheld the earth, and the starry heaven, and the tide of the teeming sea, and the rays of the sun, and still hoped to behold her mother dear, and the tribes of the eternal gods; even so long, despite her sorrow, hope warmed her high heart; then rang the mountain peaks, and the depths of the sea to her immortal voice, and her lady mother heard her. Then sharp pain caught at her heart, and with her hands she tore the wimple about her ambrosial hair, and cast a dark veil about her shoulders, and then sped she like a bird over land and sea in her great yearning; but to her there was none that would tell the truth, none, either of Gods, or deathly men, nor even a bird came nigh her, a soothsaying messenger. Thereafter for nine days did Lady Deo roam the earth, with torches burning in her hands, nor ever in her sorrow tasted she of ambrosia and sweet nectar, nor laved her body in the baths. But when at last the tenth morn came to her with the light, Hecate met her, a torch in her hands, and spake a word of tidings, and said: "Lady Demeter, thou that bringest the Seasons, thou giver of glad gifts, which of the heavenly gods or deathly men hath ravished away Persephone, and brought thee sorrow: for I heard a voice but I saw not who the ravisher might be? All this I say to thee for sooth." So spake Hecate, and the daughter of fair-tressed Rheie answered her not, but swiftly rushed on with her, bearing torches burning in her hands. So came they to Helios that watches both for gods and men, and stood before his car, and the lady Goddess questioned him: "Helios, be pitiful on me that am a goddess, if ever by word or deed I gladdened thy heart. My daughter, whom I bore, a sweet plant and fair to see; it was her shrill voice I heard through the air unharvested, even as of one violently entreated, but I saw her not with my eyes. But do thou that lookest down with thy rays from the holy air upon all the land and sea, do thou tell me truly concerning my dear child, if thou didst behold her; who it is that hath gone off and ravished her away from me against her will, who is it of gods or mortal men?" So spake she, and Hyperionides answered her: "Daughter of fair-tressed Rheia, Queen Demeter, thou shalt know it; for greatly do I pity and revere thee in thy sorrow for thy slim-ankled child. There is none other guilty of the Immortals but Zeus himself that gathereth the clouds, who gave thy daughter to Hades, his own brother, to be called his lovely wife; and Hades has ravished her away in his chariot, loudly shrilling, beneath the dusky gloom. But, Goddess, do thou cease from thy long lamenting. It behoves not thee thus vainly to cherish anger unassuaged. No unseemly lord for thy daughter among the Immortals is Aidoneus, the lord of many, thine own brother and of one seed with thee, and for his honour he won, since when was made the threefold division, to be lord among those with whom he dwells." So spake he, and called upon his horses, and at his call they swiftly bore the fleet chariot on like long-winged birds. But grief more dread and bitter fell upon her, and wroth thereafter was she with Cronion that hath dark clouds for his dwelling. She held apart from the gathering of the Gods and from tall Olympus, and disfiguring her form for many days she went among the cities and rich fields of men. Now no man knew her that looked on her, nor no deep-bosomed woman, till she came to the dwelling of Celeus, who then was Prince of fragrant Eleusis. There sat she at the wayside in sorrow of heart, by the Maiden Well whence the townsfolk were wont to draw water. In the shade she sat; above her grew a thick olive-tree; and in fashion she was like an ancient crone who knows no more of child-bearing and the gifts of Aphrodite, the lover of garlands. Such she was as are the nurses of the children of doom-pronouncing kings. Such are the housekeepers in their echoing halls. Now the daughters of Celeus beheld her as they came to fetch the fair- flowing water, to carry thereof in bronze vessels to their father's home. Four were they, like unto goddesses, all in the bloom of youth, Callidice, and Cleisidice, and winsome Demo, and Callithoe the eldest of them all, nor did they know her, for the Gods are hard to be known by mortals, but they stood near her and spake winged words: "Who art thou and whence, old woman, of ancient folk, and why wert thou wandering apart from the town, nor dost draw nigh to the houses where are women of thine own age, in the shadowy halls, even such as thou, and younger women, too, who may kindly entreat thee in word and deed?" So spake they, and the lady Goddess answered: "Dear children, whoever ye be, of womankind I bid you hail, and I will tell you my story. Seemly it is to answer your questions truly. Deo is my name that my lady mother gave me; but now, look you, from Crete am I come hither over the wide ridges of the sea, by no will of my own, nay, by violence have sea-rovers brought me hither under duress, who thereafter touched with their swift ship at Thoricos where the women and they themselves embarked on land. Then were they busy about supper beside the hawsers of the ship, but my heart heeded not delight of supper; no, stealthily setting forth through the dark land I fled from these overweening masters, that they might not sell me whom they had never bought and gain my price. Thus hither have I come in my wandering, nor know I at all what land is this, nor who they be that dwell therein. But to you may all they that hold mansions in Olympus give husbands and lords, and such children to bear as parents desire; but me do ye maidens pity in your kindness, till I come to the house of woman or of man, that there I may work zealously for them in such tasks as fit a woman of my years. I could carry in mine arms a new-born babe, and nurse it well, and keep the house, and strew my master's bed within the well-builded chambers, and teach the maids their tasks." So spake the Goddess, and straightway answered her the maid unwed, Callidice, the fairest of the daughters of Celeus: "Mother, what things soever the Gods do give must men, though sorrowing, endure, for the Gods are far stronger than we; but this will I tell thee clearly and soothly, namely, what men they are who here have most honour, and who lead the people, and by their counsels and just dooms do safeguard the bulwarks of the city. Such are wise Triptolemus, Diocles, Polyxenus, and noble Eumolpus, and Dolichus, and our lordly father. All their wives keep their houses, and not one of them would at first sight contemn thee and thrust thee from their halls, but gladly they will receive thee: for thine aspect is divine. So, if thou wilt, abide here, that we may go to the house of my father, and tell out all this tale to my mother, the deep-bosomed Metaneira, if perchance she will bid thee come to our house and not seek the homes of others. A dear son born in her later years is nurtured in the well-builded hall, a child of many prayers and a welcome. If thou wouldst nurse him till he comes to the measure of youth, then whatsoever woman saw thee should envy thee; such gifts of fosterage would my mother give thee." So spake she and the Goddess nodded assent. So rejoicing they filled their shining pitchers with water and bore them away. Swiftly they came to the high hall of their father, and quickly they told their mother what they had heard and seen, and speedily she bade them run and call the strange woman, offering goodly hire. Then as deer or calves in the season of Spring leap along the meadow, when they have had their fill of pasture, so lightly they kilted up the folds of their lovely kirtles, and ran along the hollow chariot-way, while their hair danced on their shoulders, in colour like the crocus flower. They found the glorious Goddess at the wayside, even where they had left her, and anon they led her to their father's house. But she paced behind in heaviness of heart, her head veiled, and the dark robe floating about her slender feet divine. Speedily they came to the house of Celeus, the fosterling of Zeus, and they went through the corridor where their lady mother was sitting by the doorpost of the well-wrought hall, with her child in her lap, a young blossom, and the girls ran up to her, but the Goddess stood on the threshold, her head touching the roof-beam, and she filled the doorway with the light divine. Then wonder, and awe, and pale fear seized the mother, and she gave place from her high seat, and bade the Goddess be seated. But Demeter the bearer of the Seasons, the Giver of goodly gifts, would not sit down upon the shining high seat. Nay, in silence she waited, casting down her lovely eyes, till the wise Iambe set for her a well-made stool, and cast over it a glistering fleece. {194} Then sat she down and held the veil before her face; long in sorrow and silence sat she so, and spake to no man nor made any sign, but smileless she sat, nor tasted meat nor drink, wasting with long desire for her deep- bosomed daughter. So abode she till wise Iambe with jests and many mockeries beguiled the lady, the holy one, to smile and laugh and hold a happier heart, and pleased her moods even thereafter. Then Metaneira filled a cup of sweet wine and offered it to her, but she refused it, saying, that it was not permitted for her to drink red wine; but she bade them mix meal and water with the tender herb of mint, and give it to her to drink. Then Metaneira made a potion and gave it to the Goddess as she bade, and Lady Deo took it and made libation, and to them fair-girdled Metaneira said: "Hail, lady, for methinks thou art not of mean parentage, but goodly born, for grace and honour shine in thine eyes as in the eyes of doom- dealing kings. But the gifts of the Gods, even in sorrow, we men of necessity endure, for the yoke is laid upon our necks; yet now that thou art come hither, such things as I have shall be thine. Rear me this child that the Gods have given in my later years and beyond my hope; and he is to me a child of many prayers. If thou rear him, and he come to the measure of youth, verily each woman that sees thee will envy thee, such shall be my gifts of fosterage." Then answered her again Demeter of the fair garland: "And mayst thou too, lady, fare well, and the Gods give thee all things good. Gladly will I receive thy child that thou biddest me nurse. Never, methinks, by the folly of his nurse shall charm or sorcery harm him; for I know an antidote stronger than the wild wood herb, and a goodly salve I know for the venomed spells." So spake she, and with her immortal hands she placed the child on her fragrant breast, and the mother was glad at heart. So in the halls she nursed the goodly son of wise Celeus, even Demophoon, whom deep-breasted Metaneira bare, and he grew like a god, upon no mortal food, nor on no mother's milk. For Demeter anointed him with ambrosia as though he had been a son of a God, breathing sweetness over him, and keeping him in her bosom. So wrought she by day, but at night she was wont to hide him in the force of fire like a brand, his dear parents knowing it not. {196} Nay, to them it was great marvel how flourished he and grew like the Gods to look upon. And, verily, she would have made him exempt from eld and death for ever, had not fair-girdled Metaneira, in her witlessness, spied on her in the night from her fragrant chamber. Then wailed she, and smote both her thighs, in terror for her child, and in anguish of heart, and lamenting she spake winged words: "My child Demophoon, the stranger is concealing thee in the heart of the fire; bitter sorrow for me and lamentation." So spake she, wailing, and the lady Goddess heard her. Then in wrath did the fair-garlanded Demeter snatch out of the fire with her immortal hands and cast upon the ground that woman's dear son, whom beyond all hope she had borne in the halls. Dread was the wrath of Demeter, and anon she spake to fair-girdled Metaneira. "Oh redeless and uncounselled race of men, that know not beforehand the fate of coming good or coming evil. For, lo, thou hast wrought upon thyself a bane incurable, by thine own witlessness; for by the oath of the Gods, the relentless water of Styx, I would have made thy dear child deathless and exempt from age for ever, and would have given him glory imperishable. But now in nowise may he escape the Fates and death, yet glory imperishable will ever be his, since he has lain on my knees and slept within my arms; [but as the years go round, and in his day, the sons of the Eleusinians will ever wage war and dreadful strife one upon the other.] Now I am the honoured Demeter, the greatest good and gain of the Immortals to deathly men. But, come now, let all the people build me a great temple and an altar thereby, below the town, and the steep wall, above Callichorus on the jutting rock. But the rites I myself will prescribe, that in time to come ye may pay them duly and appease my power." Therewith the Goddess changed her shape and height, and cast off old age, and beauty breathed about her, and the sweet scent was breathed from her fragrant robes, and afar shone the light from the deathless body of the Goddess, the yellow hair flowing about her shoulders, so that the goodly house was filled with the splendour as of levin fire, and forth from the halls went she. But anon the knees of the woman were loosened, and for long time she was speechless, nay, nor did she even mind of the child, her best beloved, to lift him from the floor. But the sisters of the child heard his pitiful cry, and leapt from their fair-strewn beds; one of them, lifting the child in her hands, laid it in her bosom; and another lit fire, and the third ran with smooth feet to take her mother forth from the fragrant chamber. Then gathered they about the child, and bathed and clad him lovingly, yet his mood was not softened, for meaner nurses now and handmaids held him. They the long night through were adoring the renowned Goddess, trembling with fear, but at the dawning they told truly to mighty Celeus all that the Goddess had commanded; even Demeter of the goodly garland. Thereon he called into the market-place the many people, and bade them make a rich temple, and an altar to fair-tressed Demeter, upon the jutting rock. Then anon they heard and obeyed his voice, and as he bade they builded. And the child increased in strength by the Goddess's will. Now when they had done their work, and rested from their labours, each man started for his home, but yellow-haired Demeter, sitting there apart from all the blessed Gods, abode, wasting away with desire for her deep- bosomed daughter. Then the most dread and terrible of years did the Goddess bring for mortals upon the fruitful earth, nor did the earth send up the seed, for Demeter of the goodly garland concealed it. Many crooked ploughs did the oxen drag through the furrows in vain, and much white barley fell fruitless upon the land. Now would the whole race of mortal men have perished utterly from the stress of famine, and the Gods that hold mansions in Olympus would have lost the share and renown of gift and sacrifice, if Zeus had not conceived a counsel within his heart. First he roused Iris of the golden wings to speed forth and call the fair- tressed Demeter, the lovesome in beauty. So spake Zeus, and Iris obeyed Zeus, the son of Cronos, who hath dark clouds for his tabernacle, and swiftly she sped adown the space between heaven and earth. Then came she to the citadel of fragrant Eleusis, and in the temple she found Demeter clothed in dark raiment, and speaking winged words addressed her: "Demeter, Father Zeus, whose counsels are imperishable, bids thee back unto the tribes of the eternal Gods. Come thou, then, lest the word of Zeus be of no avail." So spake she in her prayer, but the Goddess yielded not. Thereafter the Father sent forth all the blessed Gods, all of the Immortals, and coming one by one they bade Demeter return, and gave her many splendid gifts, and all honours that she might choose among the immortal Gods. But none availed to persuade by turning her mind and her angry heart, so stubbornly she refused their sayings. For she deemed no more for ever to enter fragrant Olympus, and no more to allow the earth to bear her fruit, until her eyes should behold her fair-faced daughter. But when far-seeing Zeus, the lord of the thunder-peal, had heard the thing, he sent to Erebus the slayer of Argos, the God of the golden wand, to win over Hades with soft words, and persuade him to bring up holy Persephone into the light, and among the Gods, from forth the murky gloom, that so her mother might behold her, and that her anger might relent. And Hermes disobeyed not, but straightway and speedily went forth beneath the hollow places of the earth, leaving the home of Olympus. That King he found within his dwelling, sitting on a couch with his chaste bedfellow, who sorely grieved for desire of her mother, that still was cherishing a fell design against the ill deeds of the Gods. Then the strong slayer of Argos drew near and spoke: "Hades of the dark locks, thou Prince of men out-worn, Father Zeus bade me bring the dread Persephone forth from Erebus among the Gods, that her mother may behold her, and relent from her anger and terrible wrath against the Immortals, for now she contrives a mighty deed, to destroy the feeble tribes of earth-born men by withholding the seed under the earth. Thereby the honours of the Gods are minished, and fierce is her wrath, nor mingles she with the Gods, but sits apart within the fragrant temple in the steep citadel of Eleusis." So spake he, and smiling were the brows of Aidoneus, Prince of the dead, nor did he disobey the commands of King Zeus, as speedily he bade the wise Persephone: "Go, Persephone, to thy dark-mantled mother, go with a gentle spirit in thy breast, nor be thou beyond all other folk disconsolate. Verily I shall be no unseemly lord of thine among the Immortals, I that am the brother of Father Zeus, and whilst thou art here shalt thou be mistress over all that lives and moves, but among the Immortals shalt thou have the greatest renown. Upon them that wrong thee shall vengeance be unceasing, upon them that solicit not thy power with sacrifice, and pious deeds, and every acceptable gift." So spake he, and wise Persephone was glad; and joyously and swiftly she arose, but the God himself, stealthily looking around her, gave her sweet pomegranate seed to eat, and this he did that she might not abide for ever beside revered Demeter of the dark mantle. {204} Then openly did Aidoneus, the Prince of all, get ready the steeds beneath the golden chariot, and she climbed up into the golden chariot, and beside her the strong Slayer of Argos took reins and whip in hand, and drove forth from the halls, and gladly sped the horses twain. Speedily they devoured the long way; nor sea, nor rivers, nor grassy glades, nor cliffs, could stay the rush of the deathless horses; nay, far above them they cleft the deep air in their course. Before the fragrant temple he drove them, and checked them where dwelt Demeter of the goodly garland, who, when she beheld them, rushed forth like a Maenad down a dark mountain woodland. {205} [But Persephone on the other side rejoiced to see her mother dear, and leaped to meet her; but the mother said, "Child, in Hades hast thou eaten any food? for if thou hast not] then with me and thy father the son of Cronos, who has dark clouds for his tabernacle, shalt thou ever dwell honoured among all the Immortals. But if thou hast tasted food, thou must return again, and beneath the hollows of the earth must dwell in Hades a third portion of the year; yet two parts of the year thou shalt abide with me and the other Immortals. When the earth blossoms with all manner of fragrant flowers, then from beneath the murky gloom shalt thou come again, a mighty marvel to Gods and to mortal men. Now tell me by what wile the strong host of many guests deceived thee? . . . " Then fair Persephone answered her august mother: "Behold, I shall tell thee all the truth without fail. I leaped up for joy when boon Hermes, the swift messenger, came from my father Cronides and the other heavenly Gods, with the message that I was to return out of Erebus, that so thou mightest behold me, and cease thine anger and dread wrath against the Immortals. Thereon Hades himself compelled me to taste of a sweet pomegranate seed against my will. And now I will tell thee how, through the crafty device of Cronides my father, he ravished me, and bore me away beneath the hollows of the earth. All that thou askest I will tell thee. We were all playing in the lovely meadows, Leucippe and Phaino, and Electra, and Ianthe, and Melite, and Iache, and Rhodeia, and Callirhoe, and Melobosis, and Tuche, and flower-faced Ocyroe, and Chraesis, and Ianeira, and Acaste, and Admete, and Rhodope, and Plouto, and winsome Calypso, and Styx, and Urania, and beautiful Galaxaure. We were playing there, and plucking beautiful blossoms with our hands; crocuses mingled, and iris, and hyacinth, and roses, and lilies, a marvel to behold, and narcissus, that the wide earth bare, a wile for my undoing. Gladly was I gathering them when the earth gaped beneath, and therefrom leaped the mighty Prince, the host of many guests, and he bare me against my will despite my grief beneath the earth, in his golden chariot; and shrilly did I cry. This all is true that I tell thee." So the livelong day in oneness of heart did they cheer each other with love, and their minds ceased from sorrow, and great gladness did either win from other. Then came to them Hekate of the fair wimple, and often did she kiss the holy daughter of Demeter, and from that day was her queenly comrade and handmaiden; but to them for a messenger did far-seeing Zeus of the loud thunder-peal send fair-tressed Rhea to bring dark-mantled Demeter among the Gods, with pledge of what honour she might choose among the Immortals. He vowed that her daughter, for the third part of the revolving year, should dwell beneath the murky gloom, but for the other two parts she should abide with her mother and the other gods. Thus he spake, and the Goddess disobeyed not the commands of Zeus. Swiftly she sped down from the peaks of Olympus, and came to fertile Rarion; fertile of old, but now no longer fruitful; for fallow and leafless it lay, and hidden was the white barley grain by the device of fair-ankled Demeter. None the less with the growing of the Spring the land was to teem with tall ears of corn, and the rich furrows were to be heavy with corn, and the corn to be bound in sheaves. There first did she land from the unharvested ether, and gladly the Goddesses looked on each other, and rejoiced in heart, and thus first did Rhea of the fair wimple speak to Demeter: "Hither, child; for he calleth thee, far-seeing Zeus, the lord of the deep thunder, to come among the Gods, and has promised thee such honours as thou wilt, and hath decreed that thy child, for the third of the rolling year, shall dwell beneath the murky gloom, but the other two parts with her mother and the rest of the Immortals. So doth he promise that it shall be and thereto nods his head; but come, my child, obey, and be not too unrelenting against the Son of Cronos, the lord of the dark cloud. And anon do thou increase the grain that bringeth life to men." So spake she, and Demeter of the fair garland obeyed. Speedily she sent up the grain from the rich glebe, and the wide earth was heavy with leaves and flowers: and she hastened, and showed the thing to the kings, the dealers of doom; to Triptolemus and Diocles the charioteer, and mighty Eumolpus, and Celeus the leader of the people; she showed them the manner of her rites, and taught them her goodly mysteries, holy mysteries which none may violate, or search into, or noise abroad, for the great curse from the Gods restrains the voice. Happy is he among deathly men who hath beheld these things! and he that is uninitiate, and hath no lot in them, hath never equal lot in death beneath the murky gloom. Now when the Goddess had given instruction in all her rites, they went to Olympus, to the gathering of the other Gods. There the Goddesses dwell beside Zeus the lord of the thunder, holy and revered are they. Right happy is he among mortal men whom they dearly love; speedily do they send as a guest to his lofty hall Plutus, who giveth wealth to mortal men. But come thou that holdest the land of fragrant Eleusis, and sea-girt Paros, and rocky Antron, come, Lady Deo! Queen and giver of goodly gifts, and bringer of the Seasons; come thou and thy daughter, beautiful Persephone, and of your grace grant me goodly substance in requital of my song; but I will mind me of thee, and of other minstrelsy. V. TO APHRODITE I shall sing of the revered Aphrodite, the golden-crowned, the beautiful, who hath for her portion the mountain crests of sea-girt Cyprus. Thither the strength of the west wind moistly blowing carried her amid soft foam over the wave of the resounding sea. Her did the golden-snooded Hours gladly welcome, and clad her about in immortal raiment, and on her deathless head set a well-wrought crown, fair and golden, and in her ears put earrings of orichalcum and of precious gold. Her delicate neck and white bosom they adorned with chains of gold, wherewith are bedecked the golden-snooded Hours themselves, when they come to the glad dance of the Gods in the dwelling of the Father. Anon when they had thus adorned her in all goodliness they led her to the Immortals, who gave her greeting when they beheld her, and welcomed her with their hands; and each God prayed that he might lead her home to be his wedded wife, so much they marvelled at the beauty of the fair-garlanded Cytherean. Hail, thou of the glancing eyes, thou sweet winsome Goddess, and grant that I bear off the victory in this contest, and lend thou grace to my song, while I shall both remember thee and another singing. VI. TO DIONYSUS [Dionysus sailing in his sacred ship. (Interior Design on a Kylix by Exekias in Munich.): lang213.jpg] Concerning Dionysus the son of renowned Semele shall I sing; how once he appeared upon the shore of the sea unharvested, on a jutting headland, in form like a man in the bloom of youth, with his beautiful dark hair waving around him, and on his strong shoulders a purple robe. Anon came in sight certain men that were pirates; in a well-wrought ship sailing swiftly on the dark seas: Tyrsenians were they, and Ill Fate was their leader, for they beholding him nodded each to other, and swiftly leaped forth, and hastily seized him, and set him aboard their ship rejoicing in heart, for they deemed that he was the son of kings, the fosterlings of Zeus, and they were minded to bind him with grievous bonds. But him the fetters held not, and the withes fell far from his hands and feet. {214} There sat he smiling with his dark eyes, but the steersman saw it, and spake aloud to his companions: "Fools, what God have ye taken and bound? a strong God is he, our trim ship may not contain him. Surely this is Zeus, or Apollo of the Silver Bow, or Poseidon; for he is nowise like mortal man, but like the Gods who have mansions in Olympus. Nay, come let us instantly release him upon the dark mainland, nor lay ye your hands upon him, lest, being wroth, he rouse against us masterful winds and rushing storm." So spake he, but their captain rebuked him with a hateful word: "Fool, look thou to the wind, and haul up the sail, and grip to all the gear, but this fellow will be for men to meddle with. Methinks he will come to Egypt, or to Cyprus, or to the Hyperboreans, or further far; and at the last he will tell us who his friends are, and concerning his wealth, and his brethren, for the God has delivered him into our hands." So spake he, and let raise the mast and hoist the mainsail, and the wind filled the sail, and they made taut the ropes all round. But anon strange matters appeared to them: first there flowed through all the swift black ship a sweet and fragrant wine, and the ambrosial fragrance arose, and fear fell upon all the mariners that beheld it. And straightway a vine stretched hither and thither along the sail, hanging with many a cluster, and dark ivy twined round the mast blossoming with flowers, and gracious fruit and garlands grew on all the thole-pins; and they that saw it bade the steersman drive straight to land. Meanwhile within the ship the God changed into the shape of a lion at the bow; and loudly he roared, and in midship he made a shaggy bear: such marvels he showed forth: there stood it raging, and on the deck glared the lion terribly. Then the men fled in terror to the stern, and there stood in fear round the honest pilot. But suddenly sprang forth the lion and seized the captain, and the men all at once leaped overboard into the strong sea, shunning dread doom, and there were changed into dolphins. But the God took pity upon the steersman, and kept him, and gave him all good fortune, and spake, saying, "Be of good courage, Sir, dear art thou to me, and I am Dionysus of the noisy rites whom Cadmeian Semele bare to the love of Zeus." Hail, thou child of beautiful Semele, none that is mindless of thee can fashion sweet minstrelsy. VII. TO ARES Ares, thou that excellest in might, thou lord of the chariot of war, God of the golden helm, thou mighty of heart, thou shield-bearer, thou safety of cities, thou that smitest in mail; strong of hand and unwearied valiant spearman, bulwark of Olympus, father of victory, champion of Themis; thou tyrannous to them that oppose thee with force; thou leader of just men, thou master of manlihood, thou that whirlest thy flaming sphere among the courses of the seven stars of the sky, where thy fiery steeds ever bear thee above the third orbit of heaven; do thou listen to me, helper of mortals, Giver of the bright bloom of youth. Shed thou down a mild light from above upon this life of mine, and my martial strength, so that I may be of avail to drive away bitter cowardice from my head, and to curb the deceitful rush of my soul, and to restrain the sharp stress of anger which spurs me on to take part in the dread din of battle. But give me heart, O blessed one, to abide in the painless measures of peace, avoiding the battle-cry of foes and the compelling fates of death. VIII. TO ARTEMIS Sing thou of Artemis, Muse, the sister of the Far-darter; the archer Maid, fellow-nursling with Apollo, who waters her steeds in the reedy wells of Meles, then swiftly drives her golden chariot through Smyrna to Claros of the many-clustered vines, where sits Apollo of the Silver Bow awaiting the far-darting archer maid. And hail thou thus, and hail to all Goddesses in my song, but to thee first, and beginning from thee, will I sing, and so shall pass on to another lay. IX. TO APHRODITE I shall sing of Cytherea, the Cyprus-born, who gives sweet gifts to mortals, and ever on her face is a winsome smile, and ever in her hand a winsome blossom. Hail to thee, Goddess, Queen of fair-set Salamis, and of all Cyprus, and give to me song desirable, while I shall be mindful of thee and of another song. X. TO ATHENE Of Pallas Athene, the saviour of cities, I begin to sing; dread Goddess, who with Ares takes keep of the works of war, and of falling cities, and battles, and the battle din. She it is that saveth the hosts as they go and return from the fight. Hail Goddess, and give to us happiness and good fortune. XI. TO HERA I sing of golden-throned Hera, whom Rhea bore, an immortal queen in beauty pre-eminent, the sister and the bride of loud-thundering Zeus, the lady renowned, whom all the Blessed throughout high Olympus honour and revere no less than Zeus whose delight is the thunder. XII. TO DEMETER Of fair-tressed Demeter the holy Goddess I begin to sing; of her and the Maiden, the lovely Persephone. Hail Goddess, and save this city and inspire my song. XIII. TO THE MOTHER OF THE GODS Sing for me, clear-voiced Muse, daughter of great Zeus, the mother of all Gods and all mortals, who is glad in the sound of rattles and drums, and in the noise of flutes, and in the cry of wolves and fiery-eyed lions, and in the echoing hills, and the woodland haunts; even so hail to thee and to Goddesses all in my song. XIV. TO HERACLES THE LION-HEART Of Heracles the son of Zeus will I sing, mightiest of mortals, whom Alcmena bore in Thebes of the fair dancing places, for she had lain in the arms of Cronion, the lord of the dark clouds. Of old the hero wandered endlessly over land and sea, at the bidding of Eurystheus the prince, and himself wrought many deeds of fateful might, and many he endured; but now in the fair haunts of snowy Olympus he dwells in joy, and hath white-ankled Hebe for his wife. Hail prince, son of Zeus, and give to us valour and good fortune. XV. TO ASCLEPIUS Of the healer of diseases, Asclepius, I begin to sing, the son of Apollo, whom fair Coronis bore in the Dotian plain, the daughter of King Phlegyas; a great joy to men was her son, and the soother of evil pains. Even so do thou hail, O Prince, I pray to thee in my song. XVI. TO THE DIOSCOURI Of Castor and Polydeuces do thou sing,--shrill Muse, the Tyndaridae, sons of Olympian Zeus, whom Lady Leda bore beneath the crests of Taygetus, having been secretly conquered by the desire of Cronion of the dark clouds. Hail, ye sons of Tyndarus, ye cavaliers of swift steeds. XVII. TO HERMES I sing of Cyllenian Hermes, slayer of Argus, prince of Cyllene and of Arcadia rich in sheep, the boon messenger of the Immortals. Him did Maia bear, the modest daughter of Atlas, to the love of Zeus. The company of the blessed Gods she shunned, and dwelt in a shadowy cave where Cronion was wont to lie with the fair-tressed nymph in the dark of night, while sweet sleep possessed white-armed Hera, and no Immortals knew it, and no deathly men. Hail to thee, thou son of Zeus and Maia, with thee shall I begin and pass on to another song. Hail, Hermes, Giver of grace, thou Guide, thou Giver of good things. XVIII. TO PAN [Pan. With Goat and Shepherd's Crook. Terra cotta Statuette from Tanagra, in the British Museum: lang230.jpg] Tell me, Muse, concerning the dear son of Hermes, the goat-footed, the twy-horned, the lover of the din of revel, who haunts the wooded dells with dancing nymphs that tread the crests of the steep cliffs, calling upon Pan the pastoral God of the long wild hair. Lord is he of every snowy crest and mountain peak and rocky path. Hither and thither he goes through the thick copses, sometimes being drawn to the still waters, and sometimes faring through the lofty crags he climbs the highest peak whence the flocks are seen below; ever he ranges over the high white hills, and ever among the knolls he chases and slays the wild beasts, the God, with keen eye, and at evening returns piping from the chase, breathing sweet strains on the reeds. In song that bird cannot excel him which, among the leaves of the blossoming springtide, pours forth her plaint and her honey-sweet song. With him then the mountain nymphs, the shrill singers, go wandering with light feet, and sing at the side of the dark water of the well, while the echo moans along the mountain crest, and the God leaps hither and thither, and goes into the midst, with many a step of the dance. On his back he wears the tawny hide of a lynx, and his heart rejoices with shrill songs in the soft meadow where crocus and fragrant hyacinth bloom all mingled amidst the grass. They sing of the blessed Gods and of high Olympus, and above all do they sing of boon Hermes, how he is the fleet herald of all the Gods, and how he came to many-fountained Arcadia, the mother of sheep, where is his Cyllenian demesne, and there he, God as he was, shepherded the fleecy sheep, the thrall of a mortal man; for soft desire had come upon him to wed the fair- haired daughter of Dryops, and the glad nuptials he accomplished, and to Hermes in the hall she bare a dear son. From his birth he was a marvel to behold, goat-footed, twy-horned, a loud speaker, a sweet laugher. Then the nurse leaped up and fled when she saw his wild face and bearded chin. But him did boon Hermes straightway take in his hands and bear, and gladly did he rejoice at heart. Swiftly to the dwellings of the Gods went he, bearing the babe hidden in the thick skins of mountain hares; there sat he down by Zeus and the other Immortals, and showed his child, and all the Immortals were glad at heart, and chiefly the Bacchic Dionysus. Pan they called the babe to name: because he had made glad the hearts of all of them. Hail then to thee, O Prince, I am thy suppliant in song, and I shall be mindful of thee and of another lay. XIX. TO HEPHAESTUS Sing, shrill Muse, of Hephaestus renowned in craft, who with grey-eyed Athene taught goodly works to men on earth, even to men that before were wont to dwell in mountain caves like beasts; but now, being instructed in craft by the renowned craftsman Hephaestus, lightly the whole year through they dwell happily in their own homes. Be gracious, Hephaestus, and grant me valour and fortune. XX. TO APOLLO Phoebus, to thee the swan sings shrill to the beating of his wings, as he lights on the bank of the whirling pools of the river Peneus; and to thee with his shrill lyre does the sweet-voiced minstrel sing ever, both first and last. Even so hail thou, Prince, I beseech thee in my song. XXI. TO POSEIDON Concerning Poseidon, a great God, I begin to sing: the shaker of the land and of the sea unharvested; God of the deep who holdeth Helicon and wide AEgae. A double meed of honour have the Gods given thee, O Shaker of the Earth, to be tamer of horses and saviour of ships. Hail Prince, thou Girdler of the Earth, thou dark-haired God, and with kindly heart, O blessed one, do thou befriend the mariners. XXII. TO HIGHEST ZEUS To Zeus the best of Gods will I sing; the best and the greatest, the far- beholding lord who bringeth all to an end, who holdeth constant counsel with Themis as she reclines on her couch. Be gracious, far-beholding son of Cronos, thou most glorious and greatest. XXIII. TO HESTIA Hestia, that guardest the sacred house of the Prince, Apollo the Far-darter, in goodly Pytho, ever doth the oil drop dank from thy locks. Come thou to this house with a gracious heart, come with counselling Zeus, and lend grace to my song. XXIV. TO THE MUSES AND APOLLO From the Muse I shall begin and from Apollo and Zeus. For it is from the Muses and far-darting Apollo that minstrels and harpers are upon the earth, but from Zeus come kings. Fortunate is he whomsoever the Muses love, and sweet flows his voice from his lips. Hail, ye children of Zeus, honour ye my lay, and anon I shall be mindful of you and of another hymn. XXV. TO DIONYSUS Of ivy-tressed uproarious Dionysus I begin to sing, the splendid son of Zeus and renowned Semele. Him did the fair-tressed nymphs foster, receiving him from the king and father in their bosoms, and needfully they nurtured him in the glens of Nyse. By his father's will he waxed strong in the fragrant cavern, being numbered among the Immortals. Anon when the Goddesses had bred him up to be the god of many a hymn, then went he wandering in the woodland glades, draped with ivy and laurel, and the nymphs followed with him where he led, and loud rang the wild woodland. Hail to thee, then, Dionysus of the clustered vine, and grant to us to come gladly again to the season of vintaging, yea, and afterwards for many a year to come. XXVI. TO ARTEMIS I sing of Artemis of the Golden Distaff, Goddess of the loud chase, a maiden revered, the slayer of stags, the archer, very sister of Apollo of the golden blade. She through the shadowy hills and the windy headlands rejoicing in the chase draws her golden bow, sending forth shafts of sorrow. Then tremble the crests of the lofty mountains, and terribly the dark woodland rings with din of beasts, and the earth shudders, and the teeming sea. Meanwhile she of the stout heart turns about on every side slaying the race of wild beasts. Anon when the Archer Huntress hath taken her delight, and hath gladdened her heart, she slackens her bended bow, and goes to the great hall of her dear Phoebus Apollo, to the rich Delphian land; and arrays the lovely dance of Muses and Graces. There hangs she up her bended bow and her arrows, and all graciously clad about she leads the dances, first in place, while the others utter their immortal voice in hymns to fair-ankled Leto, how she bore such children pre-eminent among the Immortals in counsel and in deed. Hail, ye children of Zeus and fair-tressed Leto, anon will I be mindful of you and of another hymn. [Apollo, Artemis and Leto in procession. Marble relief in the Louvre: lang241.jpg] XXVII. TO ATHENE Of fairest Athene, renowned Goddess, I begin to sing, of the Grey-eyed, the wise; her of the relentless heart, the maiden revered, the succour of cities, the strong Tritogeneia. Her did Zeus the counsellor himself beget from his holy head, all armed for war in shining golden mail, while in awe did the other Gods behold it. Quickly did the Goddess leap from the immortal head, and stood before Zeus, shaking her sharp spear, and high Olympus trembled in dread beneath the strength of the grey-eyed Maiden, while earth rang terribly around, and the sea was boiling with dark waves, and suddenly brake forth the foam. Yea, and the glorious son of Hyperion checked for long his swift steeds, till the maiden took from her immortal shoulders her divine armour, even Pallas Athene: and Zeus the counsellor rejoiced. Hail to thee, thou child of aegis-bearing Zeus, anon shall I be mindful of thee and of another lay. XXVIII. TO HESTIA Hestia, thou that in the lofty halls of all immortal Gods, and of all men that go on earth, hast obtained an eternal place and the foremost honour, splendid is thy glory and thy gift, for there is no banquet of mortals without thee, none where, Hestia, they be not wont first and last to make to thee oblation of sweet wine. And do thou, O slayer of Argus, son of Zeus and Maia, messenger of the blessed Gods, God of the golden wand, Giver of all things good, do thou with Hestia dwell in the fair mansions, dear each to other; with kindly heart befriend us in company with dear and honoured Hestia. [For both the twain, well skilled in all fair works of earthly men, consort with wisdom and youth.] Hail daughter of Cronos, thou and Hermes of the golden wand, anon will I be mindful of you and of another lay. XXIX. TO EARTH, THE MOTHER OF ALL Concerning Earth, the mother of all, shall I sing, firm Earth, eldest of Gods, that nourishes all things in the world; all things that fare on the sacred land, all things in the sea, all flying things, all are fed out of her store. Through thee, revered Goddess, are men happy in their children and fortunate in their harvest. Thine it is to give or to take life from mortal men. Happy is he whom thou honourest with favouring heart; to him all good things are present innumerable: his fertile field is laden, his meadows are rich in cattle, his house filled with all good things. Such men rule righteously in cities of fair women, great wealth and riches are theirs, their children grow glorious in fresh delights: their maidens joyfully dance and sport through the soft meadow flowers in floral revelry. Such are those that thou honourest, holy Goddess, kindly spirit. Hail, Mother of the Gods, thou wife of starry Ouranos, and freely in return for my ode give me sufficient livelihood. Anon will I be mindful of thee and of another lay. XXX. TO HELIOS Begin, O Muse Calliope, to sing of Helios the child of Zeus, the splendid Helios whom dark-eyed Euryphaessa bore to the son of Earth and starry Heaven. For Hyperion wedded Euryphaessa, his own sister, who bore him goodly children, the rosy-armed Dawn, and fair-tressed Selene, and the tireless Helios, like unto the Immortals, who from his chariot shines on mortals and on deathless Gods, and dread is the glance of his eyes from his golden helm, and bright rays shine forth from him splendidly, and round his temples the shining locks flowing down from his head frame round his far-seen face, and a goodly garment wrought delicately shines about his body in the breath of the winds, and stallions speed beneath him when he, charioting his horses and golden-yoked car, drives down through heaven to ocean. Hail, Prince, and of thy grace grant me livelihood enough; beginning from thee I shall sing the race of heroes half divine, whose deeds the Goddesses have revealed to mortals. XXXI. TO THE MOON Ye Muses, sing of the fair-faced, wide-winged Moon; ye sweet-voiced daughters of Zeus son of Cronos, accomplished in song! The heavenly gleam from her immortal head circles the earth, and all beauty arises under her glowing light, and the lampless air beams from her golden crown, and the rays dwell lingering when she has bathed her fair body in the ocean stream, and clad her in shining raiment, divine Selene, yoking her strong-necked glittering steeds. Then forward with speed she drives her deep-maned horses in the evening of the mid-month when her mighty orb is full; then her beams are brightest in the sky as she waxes, a token and a signal to mortal men. With her once was Cronion wedded in love, and she conceived, and brought forth Pandia the maiden, pre-eminent in beauty among the immortal Gods. Hail, Queen, white-armed Goddess, divine Selene, gentle of heart and fair of tress. Beginning from thee shall I sing the renown of heroes half divine whose deeds do minstrels chant from their charmed lips; these ministers of the Muses. XXXII. TO THE DIOSCOURI Sing, fair-glancing Muses, of the sons of Zeus, the Tyndaridae, glorious children of fair-ankled Leda, Castor the tamer of steeds and faultless Polydeuces. These, after wedlock with Cronion of the dark clouds, she bore beneath the crests of Taygetus, that mighty hill, to be the saviours of earthly men, and of swift ships when the wintry breezes rush along the pitiless sea. Then men from their ships call in prayer with sacrifice of white lambs when they mount the vessel's deck. But the strong wind and the wave of the sea drive down their ship beneath the water; when suddenly appear the sons of Zeus rushing through the air with tawny wings, and straightway have they stilled the tempests of evil winds, and have lulled the waves in the gulfs of the white salt sea: glad signs are they to mariners, an ending of their labour: and men see it and are glad, and cease from weary toil. Hail ye, Tyndaridae, ye knights of swift steeds, anon will I be mindful of you and of another lay. [The Dioscuri coming to the feast of the Theoxenia. From a Vase in the British Museum (Sixth Century B.C.): lang252.jpg] XXXIII. TO DIONYSUS Some say that Semele bare thee to Zeus the lord of thunder in Dracanon, and some in windy Icarus, and some in Naxos, thou seed of Zeus, Eiraphiotes; and others by the deep-swelling river Alpheius, and others, O Prince, say that thou wert born in Thebes. Falsely speak they all: for the Father of Gods and men begat thee far away from men, while white-armed Hera knew it not. There is a hill called Nyse, a lofty hill, flowering into woodland, far away from Phoenicia, near the streams of AEgyptus. . . . "And to thee will they raise many statues in the temples: as these thy deeds are three, so men will sacrifice to thee hecatombs every three years." {254} So spake Zeus the counsellor, and nodded with his head. Be gracious, Eiraphiotes, thou wild lover, from thee, beginning and ending with thee, we minstrels sing: in nowise is it possible for him who forgets thee to be mindful of sacred song. Hail to thee, Dionysus Eiraphiotes, with thy mother Semele, whom men call Thyone. FOOTNOTES {4} Baumeister, p. 94, and note on Hymn to Hermes, 51, citing Antigonus Carystius. See, too, Gemoll, _Die Homerischen Hymnen_, p. 105. {13} _Journal of Hellenic Society_, vol. xiv. pp. 1-29. Mr. Verrall's whole paper ought to be read, as a summary cannot be adequate. {16a} Henderson, "The Casket Letters," p. 67. {16b} Baumeister, "Hymni Homerici," 1860, p. 108 _et seq_. {18} _Die Homerischen Hymnen_, p. 116 (1886). {23a} _Journal Anthrop. Inst_., Feb. 1892, p. 290. {23b} (_Op. cit_., p. 296.) See "Are Savage Gods Borrowed from Missionaries?" (_Nineteenth Century_, January 1899). {24} Hartland, "Folk-Lore," ix. 4, 312; x. I, p. 51. {30} Winslow, 1622. {34} For authorities, see Mr Howitt in the _Journal of the Anthropological Institute_, and my "Making of Religion." Also _Folk Lore_, December-March, 1898-99. {37a} Manning, "Notes on the Aborigines of New Holland." Read before Royal Society of New South Wales, 1882. Notes taken down in 1845. Compare Mrs. Langloh Parker, _More Australian Legendary Tales_, "The Legend of the Flowers." {37b} Spencer and Gillen, "Natives of Central Australia," p. 651, _s.v_. {39} For the use of Hermes's tortoise-shell as a musical instrument _without strings_, in early Anahuac, see Prof. Morse, in Appleton's _Popular Science Monthly_, March 1899. {41} Gemoll. {44} "Golden Bough," i. 279. Mannhardt, _Antike-Wald-und Feldkulte_, p. 274. {45} Howitt, _Journal Anthtop. Inst_., xvi. p. 54. {46a} The Kurnai hold this belief. {46b} Brough Smyth, vol. i. p. 426 {46c} _Journal Anthrop. Inst_., xvi. pp. 330-331. {59} The most minute study of Lobeck's _Aglaophamus_ can tell us no more than this; the curious may consult a useful short manual, _Eleusis, Ses Mysteres, Ses Ruines, et son Musee_, by M. Demetrios Philios. Athens, 1896. M. Philios is the Director of the Eleusinian Excavations. {61} "Golden Bough," ii. 292. {62} "Golden Bough," ii. 369. {64a} "Golden Bough," ii. 44. {64b} Ibid., 46. {65} Mrs. Langloh Parker, "More Australian Legends," pp. 93-99. {66} The anthropomorphic view of the Genius of the grain as a woman existed in Peru, as I have remarked in "Myth, Ritual, and Religion," i. 213. See, too, "Golden Bough," i. p. 351; Mr. Frazer also notes the Corn Mother of Germany, and the Harvest Maiden of Balquhidder. {67} "Golden Bough," p. 351, citing from Mannhardt a Spanish tract of 1649. {68} Howitt, on Mysteries of the Coast Murring (_Journal Anthrop. Instit_., vol. xiv.). {69} De Smet, "Oregon Mission," p. 359. Tanner's "Narrative" (1830), pp. 192-193. {72} Pater, "Greek Studies," p. 90. {74a} "Africana," i. 130. {74b} _Journal Anthrop. Instit_. (1884), xiii. pp. 444, 450. {74c} _Op. cit_., xiv. pp. 310, 316. {75} "New South Wales," by Barren Field, pp. 69, 122 (1825). {76a} Aristophanes, _Ranae_, 445 _et seq_.; Origen. _c. Cels_., iii. 59; Andocides, _Myst_., 31; Euripides, _Bacch_, 72 _et seq_. See Wobbermin, _Religionsgeschitliche Studien_, pp. 36-44. {76b} Wobbermin, _op. cit_., p. 38. {77} Wobbermin, _op. cit_., p. 34. {78} Hatch, "Hibbert Lectures," pp. 284, 285. {82} _Recherches sur l'Origine et la Nature des Mysteres d'Eleusis_. Klinikseck. Paris, 1895. {84} Herodotus, ii. 171. {85a} Spencer and Gillen, "Natives of Central Australia," p. 399. The myth is not very quotable. {85b} Foucart, p. 19, quoting _Philosophoumena_, v. 7. M. Foucart, of course, did not know the Arunta parallel. {85c} _Journal Anthrop. Inst_. (1884), pp. 194, 195, "Ngarego and Wolgal Tribes of New South Wales." {85d} Ibid. (1885), p. 313. {86a} For ample information on this head see Mr. Clodd's "Tom-Tit-Tot," and my "Custom and Myth" ("Cupid, Psyche, and the Sun Frog"). {86b} _Panegyr_., 28. {87a} Clem. Alex. _Protrept_., ii. 77 _et seq_. {87b} Harpocration, _s. v_. [Greek text]. {87c} _Cf_. [Greek text]. Hippon, 90, and Theophrastus, Charact. 6, and Synesius, 213, c. Liddell and Scott, _s.v_. [Greek text]. {88a} "Sand and Spinifex," 1899. {88b} Foucart, pp. 45, 46 {88c} Hymn, Orph., 41, 5-9. {89a} Heriot, 1586. {89b} Foucart, pp. 56-59. {90} Foucart, p. 64. {91a} Basil Thomson, "The Kalou-Vu" (_Journal Anthrop. Inst_., May 1895, pp. 349-356). Mr. Thomson was struck by the Greek analogies, but he did not know, or does not allude to, Plutarch and the Golden Scroll. {91b} Fragments, V. p. 9, Didot; Foucart, p. 56, note. {95a} Herodotus, Alilat, i. 131, iii. 8. {95b} "Cities and Bishoprics of Phrygia," 1895, vol. i. pp. 91, 92. {104} Callim., H. Apoll. 30. [Greek verse] {115} The Greek is corrupt, especially in line 213. {121} This action was practised by the Zulus in divination, and, curiously, by a Highlander of the last century, appealing to the dead Lovat not to see him wronged. {124} A folk-etymology from [Greek text] = to rot. {127} A similar portent is of recent belief in Maori tradition. {133} See Essay on this Hymn. {136} In our illustration both the lyre with a tortoise shell for sounding-board, and the cithara, with no such sounding-board, are represented. Is it possible that "the tuneful shell" was primarily used _without_ chords, as an instrument for drumming upon? The drum, variously made, is the primitive musical instrument, and it is doubted whether any stringed instrument existed among native American races. But drawings in ancient Aztec MSS. (as Mr. Morse has recently observed) show the musician using a kind of drum made of a tortoise-shell, and some students have (probably with too much fancy) recognised a figure with a tortoise-shell fitted with chords, in Aztec MSS. It is possible enough that the early Greeks used the shell as a sort of drum, before some inventor (Hermes, in the Hymn) added chords and developed a stringed instrument. _Cf_. p. 39. {138} Such sandals are used to hide their tracks by Avengers of Blood among the tribes of Central Australia. {140} This piece of wood is that in which the other is twirled to make fire by friction. {141a} Otherwise written and interpreted, "as even now the skins are there," that is, are exhibited as relics. {141b} "Der Zweite Halbvers is mir absolut unverstandlich!"--_Gemoll_. {144} This is not likely to be the sense, but sense the text gives none. Allen, _Journal of Hellenic Studies_, xvii. II. {153} "As if one walked with trees instead of feet."--_Allen_. {156} The passage which follows (409-414) is too corrupt to admit of any but conjectural rendering. Probably Apollo twisted bands, which fell off Hermes, turned to growing willows, and made a bower over the kine. See Mr. Allen, _op. cit_. {162a} This passage is a playing field of conjecture; some taking [Greek text] = Mediator, or Go-between: some as = pactum, "covenant." {162b} There seems to be a reference to the _caduceus_ of Hermes, which some have compared to the forked Divining Rod. The whole is corrupt and obscure. To myself it seems that, when he gave the lyre (463-495), Hermes was hinting at his wish to receive in exchange the gift of prophecy. If so, these passages are all disjointed, and 521, with what follows, should come after 495, where Hermes makes the gift of the lyre. {164} It appears from Philochorus that the prophetic lots were called _thriae_. They are then personified, as the prophetic Sisters, the Thriae. The white flour on their locks may be the grey hair of old age: we know, however, a practice of divining with grain among an early agricultural people, the Hurons. {168} Hestia, deity of the sacred hearth, is, in a sense, the Cinderella of the Gods, the youngest daughter, tending the holy fire. The legend of her being youngest yet eldest daughter of Cronos may have some reference to this position. "The hearth-place shall belong to the youngest son or daughter," in Kent. See "Costumal of the Thirteenth Century," with much learning on the subject, in Mr. Elton's "Origins of English History," especially p. 190. {170} Shielings are places of summer abode in pastoral regions. {180} Reading [Greek text], Mr. Edgar renders "no longer will my mouth ope to tell," &c. {194} [Greek text] seems to answer to _fauteuil_, [Greek text] to [Greek text]. {196} M. Lefebure suggests to me that this is a trace of Phoenician influence: compare Moloch's sacrifices of children, and "passing through the fire." Such rites, however, are frequent in Japan, Bulgaria, India, Polynesia, and so on. See "The Fire Walk" in my "Modern Mythology." {204} An universally diffused belief declares that whosoever tastes the food of the dead may never return to earth. {205} The lines in brackets merely state the probable meaning of a dilapidated passage. {214} This appears to answer to the difficult passage about the bonds of Apollo falling from the limbs of Hermes (_Hermes_, 404, 405). Loosing spells were known to the Vikings, and the miracle occurs among those of Jesuits persecuted under Queen Elizabeth. {254} There is a gap in the text. Three deeds of Dionysus must have been narrated, then follows the comment of Zeus.