Veiled in a saffron mantle, through the airunmeasured, after the strange wedding, Hymendeparted swiftly for Ciconian land;regardless and not listening to the voiceof tuneful Orpheus. Truly Hymen therewas present during the festivitiesof Orpheus and Eurydice, but gaveno happy omen, neither hallowed wordsnor joyful glances; and the torch he heldwould only sputter, fill the eyes with smoke,and cause no blaze while waving. The resultof that sad wedding, proved more terriblethan such foreboding fates.While through the grassdelighted Naiads wandered with the bride,a serpent struck its venomed tooth in hersoft ankle— and she died.—After the bardof Rhodope had mourned, and filled the highsof heaven with the moans of his lament,determined also the dark underworldshould recognize the misery of death,he dared descend by the Taenarian gatedown to the gloomy Styx. And there passed throughpale-glimmering phantoms, and the ghostsescaped from sepulchres, until he foundPersephone and Pluto, master-kingof shadow realms below: and then beganto strike his tuneful lyre, to which he sang:—“O deities of this dark world beneaththe earth! this shadowy underworld, to whichall mortals must descend! If it can becalled lawful, and if you will suffer speechof strict truth (all the winding waysof Falsity forbidden) I come notdown here because of curiosityto see the glooms of Tartarus and haveno thought to bind or strangle the three necksof the Medusan Monster, vile with snakes.But I have come, because my darling wifestepped on a viper that sent through her veinsdeath-poison, cutting off her coming years.“If able, I would bear it, I do notdeny my effort—but the god of Lovehas conquered me—a god so kindly knownin all the upper world. We are not surehe can be known so well in this deep world,but have good reason to conjecture heis not unknown here, and if old reportalmost forgotten, that you stole your wifeis not a fiction, Love united youthe same as others. By this Place of Fearthis huge void and these vast and silent realms,renew the life-thread of Eurydice.“All things are due to you, and though on earthit happens we may tarry a short while,slowly or swiftly we must go to oneabode; and it will be our final home.Long and tenaciously you will possessunquestioned mastery of the human race.She also shall be yours to rule, when fullof age she shall have lived the days of herallotted years. So I ask of youpossession of her few days as a boon.But if the fates deny to me this prayerfor my true wife, my constant mind must holdme always so that I can not return—and you may triumph in the death of two!”While he sang all his heart said to the soundof his sweet lyre, the bloodless ghosts themselveswere weeping, and the anxious Tantalusstopped clutching at return-flow of the wave,Ixion's twisting wheel stood wonder-bound;and Tityus' liver for a while escapedthe vultures, and the listening Belidesforgot their sieve-like bowls and even you,O Sisyphus! sat idly on your rock!Then Fame declared that conquered by the songof Orpheus, for the first and only timethe hard cheeks of the fierce Eumenideswere wet with tears: nor could the royal queen,nor he who rules the lower world denythe prayer of Orpheus; so they called to themEurydice, who still was held amongthe new-arriving shades, and she obeyedthe call by walking to them with slow steps,yet halting from her wound. So Orpheus thenreceived his wife; and Pluto told him hemight now ascend from these Avernian valesup to the light, with his Eurydice;but, if he turned his eyes to look at her,the gift of her delivery would be lost.They picked their way in silence up a steepand gloomy path of darkness. There remainedbut little more to climb till they would touchearth's surface, when in fear he might againlose her, and anxious for another lookat her, he turned his eyes so he could gazeupon her. Instantly she slipped away.He stretched out to her his despairing arms,eager to rescue her, or feel her form,but could hold nothing save the yielding air.Dying the second time, she could not saya word of censure of her husband's fault;what had she to complain of — his great love?Her last word spoken was, “Farewell!” which hecould barely hear, and with no further soundshe fell from him again to Hades.—Struckquite senseless by this double death of hisdear wife, he was as fixed from motion asthe frightened one who saw the triple necksof Cerberus, that dog whose middle neckwas chained. The sight filled him with terror hehad no escape from, until petrifiedto stone; or like Olenos, changed to stone,because he fastened on himself the guiltof his wife. O unfortunate Lethaea!Too boastful of your beauty, you and he,united once in love, are now two stonesupon the mountain Ida, moist with springs.Orpheus implored in vain the ferrymanto help him cross the River Styx again,but was denied the very hope of death.Seven days he sat upon Death's river bank,in squalid misery and without all food—nourished by grief, anxiety, and tears—complaining that the Gods of Erebuswere pitiless, at last he wandered back,until he came to lofty Rhodopeand Haemus, beaten by the strong north wind.Three times the Sun completed his full courseto watery Pisces, and in all that time,shunning all women, Orpheus still believedhis love-pledge was forever. So he keptaway from women, though so many grieved,because he took no notice of their love.The only friendship he enjoyed was givento the young men of Thrace. There was a hillwhich rose up to a level plateau, highand beautiful with green grass; and there wasnot any shade for comfort on the topand there on that luxuriant grass the bard,while heaven-inspired reclined, and strucksuch harmonies on his sweet lyre that shademost grateful to the hill was spread around.Strong trees came up there—the Chaonian oakthe Heliads' poplar, and the lofty-brancheddeep mast-tree, the soft linden and the beech,the brittle hazel, and the virgin laurel-tree,the ash for strong spears, the smooth silver-fir,the flex bent with acorns and the plane,the various tinted maple and with those,the lotus and green willows from their streams,evergreen box and slender tamarisks,rich myrtles of two colors and the tine,bending with green-blue berries: and you, too,the pliant-footed ivy, came alongwith tendril-branching grape-vines, and the elmall covered with twist-vines, the mountain-ash,pitch-trees and arbute-trees of blushing fruit,the bending-palm prized after victories,the bare-trunk pine of tufted foliage,bristled upon the top, a pleasant sightdelightful to the Mother of the Gods;since Attis dear to Cybele, exchangedhis human form which hardened in that tree.In all the throng the cone-shaped cypress came;a tree now, it was changed from a dear youthloved by the god who strings the lyre and bow.For there was at one time, a mighty stagheld sacred by those nymphs who haunt the fieldsCarthaean. His great antlers spread so wide,they gave an ample shade to his own head.Those antlers shone with gold: from his smooth throata necklace, studded with a wealth of gems,hung down to his strong shoulders—beautiful.A silver boss, fastened with little thongs,played on his forehead, worn there from his birth;and pendants from both ears, of gleaming pearls,adorned his hollow temples. Free of fear,and now no longer shy, frequenting homesof men he knew, he offered his soft neckeven to strangers for their petting hands.But more than by all others, he was lovedby you, O Cyparissus, fairest youthof all the lads of Cea. It was youwho led the pet stag to fresh pasturage,and to the waters of the clearest spring.Sometimes you wove bright garlands for his horns,and sometimes, like a horseman on his back,now here now there, you guided his soft mouthwith purple reins. It was upon a summer day,at high noon when the Crab, of spreading claws,loving the sea-shore, almost burnt beneaththe sun's hot burning rays; and the pet stagwas then reclining on the grassy earthand, wearied of all action, found reliefunder the cool shade of the forest trees;that as he lay there Cyparissus piercedhim with a javelin: and although it wasquite accidental, when the shocked youth sawhis loved stag dying from the cruel woundhe could not bear it, and resolved on death.What did not Phoebus say to comfort him?He cautioned him to hold his grief in check,consistent with the cause. But still the ladlamented, and with groans implored the Godsthat he might mourn forever. His life forceexhausted by long weeping, now his limbsbegan to take a green tint, and his hair,which overhung his snow-white brow, turned upinto a bristling crest; and he becamea stiff tree with a slender top and pointedup to the starry heavens. And the God,groaning with sorrow, said; “You shall be mournedsincerely by me, surely as you mournfor others, and forever you shall standin grief, where others grieve.”
Such was the groveby Orpheus drawn together; and he satsurrounded by assembled animals,and many strange Birds. When he tried the chordsby touching with his thumb, and was convincedthe notes were all in harmony, althoughattuned to various melody, he raisedhis voice and sang:“Oh my loved mother, Muse,from Jove inspire my song—for all things yield,to the unequalled sway of Jove—oh, Ihave sung so often Jupiter's great powerbefore this day, and in a wilder strain,I've sung the giants and victorious boltshurled on Phlegraean plains. But now I needthe gentler touch; for I would sing of boys,the favorites of Gods, and even of maidswho had to pay the penalty of wrong.”The king of all the Gods once burned with lovefor Ganymede of Phrygia. He founda shape more pleasing even than his own.Jove would not take the form of any bird,except the eagle's, able to sustainthe weight of his own thunderbolts. Withoutdelay, Jove on fictitious eagle wings,stole and flew off with that loved Trojan boy:who even to this day, against the willof Juno, mingles nectar in the cupsof his protector, mighty Jupiter.You also, Hyacinthus, would have beenset in the sky! if Phoebus had been giventime which the cruel fates denied for you.But in a way you are immortal too.Though you have died. Always when warm springdrives winter out, and Aries (the Ram)succeeds to Pisces (watery Fish), you riseand blossom on the green turf. And the lovemy father had for you was deeper than he feltfor others. Delphi center of the world,had no presiding guardian, while the Godfrequented the Eurotas and the landof Sparta, never fortified with walls.His zither and his bow no longer fillhis eager mind and now without a thoughtof dignity, he carried nets and heldthe dogs in leash, and did not hesitateto go with Hyacinthus on the rough,steep mountain ridges; and by all of suchassociations, his love was increased.Now Titan was about midway, betwixtthe coming and the banished night, and stoodat equal distance from those two extremes.Then, when the youth and Phoebus were well stripped,and gleaming with rich olive oil, they trieda friendly contest with the discus. FirstPhoebus, well-poised, sent it awhirl through air,and cleft the clouds beyond with its broad weight;from which at length it fell down to the earth,a certain evidence of strength and skill.Heedless of danger Hyacinthus rushedfor eager glory of the game, resolvedto get the discus. But it bounded backfrom off the hard earth, and struck full againstyour face, O Hyacinthus! Deadly palethe God's face went — as pallid as the boy's.With care he lifted the sad huddled form.The kind god tries to warm you back to life,and next endeavors to attend your wound,and stay your parting soul with healing herbs.His skill is no advantage, for the woundis past all art of cure. As if someone,when in a garden, breaks off violets,poppies, or lilies hung from golden stems,then drooping they must hang their withered heads,and gaze down towards the earth beneath them; so,the dying boy's face droops, and his bent neck,a burden to itself, falls back uponhis shoulder: “You are fallen in your primedefrauded of your youth, O Hyacinthus!”Moaned Apollo. “I can see in your sad woundmy own guilt, and you are my cause of griefand self-reproach. My own hand gave you deathunmerited — I only can be chargedwith your destruction.—What have I done wrong?Can it be called a fault to play with you?Should loving you be called a fault? And oh,that I might now give up my life for you!Or die with you! But since our destiniesprevent us you shall always be with me,and you shall dwell upon my care-filled lips.The lyre struck by my hand, and my true songswill always celebrate you. A new floweryou shall arise, with markings on your petals,close imitation of my constant moans:and there shall come another to be linkedwith this new flower, a valiant hero shallbe known by the same marks upon its petals.”And while Phoebus, Apollo, sang these wordswith his truth-telling lips, behold the bloodof Hyacinthus, which had poured out onthe ground beside him and there stained the grass,was changed from blood; and in its place a flower,more beautiful than Tyrian dye, sprang up.It almost seemed a lily, were it notthat one was purple and the other white.But Phoebus was not satisfied with this.For it was he who worked the miracleof his sad words inscribed on flower leaves.These letters AI, AI, are inscribedon them. And Sparta certainly is proudto honor Hyacinthus as her son;and his loved fame endures; and every yearthey celebrate his solemn festival. If you should ask Amathus, which is richin metals, how can she rejoice and takea pride in deeds of her Propoetides;she would disclaim it and repudiatethem all, as well as those of transformed men,whose foreheads were deformed by two rough horns,from which their name Cerastae. By their gatesan altar unto Jove stood. If by chancea stranger, not informed of their dark crimes,had seen the horrid altar smeared with blood,he would suppose that suckling calves and sheepof Amathus, were sacrificed thereon—it was in fact the blood of slaughtered guests!Kind-hearted Venus, outraged by such deedsof sacrifice, was ready to deserther cities and her snake-infested plains;“But how,” said she, “have their delightful landstogether with my well built cities sinned?What crime have they done?—Those inhabitantsshould pay the penalty of their own crimesby exile or by death; or it may bea middle course, between exile and death;and what can that be, but the punishmentof a changed form?” And while she hesitates,in various thoughts of what form they should take,her eyes by chance, observed their horns,and that decided her; such horns could wellbe on them after any change occurred,and she transformed their big and brutal bodiesto savage bulls.But even after that,the obscene Propoetides dared to denydivinity of Venus, for which fault,(and it is common fame) they were the firstto criminate their bodies, through the wrathof Venus; and so blushing shame was lost,white blood, in their bad faces grew so fast,so hard, it was no wonder they were turnedwith small change into hard and lifeless stones. Pygmalion saw these women waste their livesin wretched shame, and critical of faultswhich nature had so deeply planted throughtheir female hearts, he lived in preference,for many years unmarried.—But while hewas single, with consummate skill, he carveda statue out of snow-white ivory,and gave to it exquisite beauty, whichno woman of the world has ever equalled:she was so beautiful, he fell in lovewith his creation. It appeared in trutha perfect virgin with the grace of life,but in the expression of such modestyall motion was restrained—and so his artconcealed his art. Pygmalion gazed, inflamedwith love and admiration for the form,in semblance of a woman, he had carved.He lifts up both his hands to feel the work,and wonders if it can be ivory,because it seems to him more truly flesh. —his mind refusing to conceive of itas ivory, he kisses it and feelshis kisses are returned. And speaking love,caresses it with loving hands that seemto make an impress, on the parts they touch,so real that he fears he then may bruiseher by his eager pressing. Softest tonesare used each time he speaks to her. He bringsto her such presents as are surely prizedby sweet girls; such as smooth round pebbles, shells,and birds, and fragrant flowers of thousand tints,lilies, and painted balls, and amber tearsof Heliads, which distill from far off trees.—he drapes her in rich clothing and in gems:rings on her fingers, a rich necklace roundher neck, pearl pendants on her graceful ears;and golden ornaments adorn her breast.All these are beautiful—and she appearsmost lovable, if carefully attired,—or perfect as a statue, unadorned.He lays her on a bed luxurious, spreadwith coverlets of Tyrian purple dye,and naming her the consort of his couch,lays her reclining head on the most softand downy pillows, trusting she could feel.The festal day of Venus, known throughoutall Cyprus, now had come, and throngs were thereto celebrate. Heifers with spreading horns,all gold-tipped, fell when given the stroke of deathupon their snow-white necks; and frankincensewas smoking on the altars. There, intent,Pygmalion stood before an altar, whenhis offering had been made; and although hefeared the result, he prayed: “If it is true,O Gods, that you can give all things, I prayto have as my wife—” but, he did not dareto add “my ivory statue-maid,” and said,“One like my ivory—.” Golden Venus heard,for she was present at her festival,and she knew clearly what the prayer had meant.She gave a sign that her Divinityfavored his plea: three times the flame leaped highand brightly in the air.When he returned,he went directly to his image-maid,bent over her, and kissed her many times,while she was on her couch; and as he kissed,she seemed to gather some warmth from his lips.Again he kissed her; and he felt her breast;the ivory seemed to soften at the touch,and its firm texture yielded to his hand,as honey-wax of Mount Hymettus turnsto many shapes when handled in the sun,and surely softens from each gentle touch.He is amazed; but stands rejoicing in his doubt;while fearful there is some mistake, againand yet again, gives trial to his hopesby touching with his hand. It must be flesh!The veins pulsate beneath the careful testof his directed finger. Then, indeed,the astonished hero poured out lavish thanksto Venus; pressing with his raptured lipshis statue's lips. Now real, true to life—the maiden felt the kisses given to her,and blushing, lifted up her timid eyes,so that she saw the light and sky above,as well as her rapt lover while he leanedgazing beside her—and all this at once—the goddess graced the marriage she had willed,and when nine times a crescent moon had changed,increasing to the full, the statue-bridegave birth to her dear daughter Paphos. Fromwhich famed event the island takes its name. The royal Cinyras was sprung from her;and if he had been father of no child,might well have been accounted fortunate—but I must sing of horrible events—avoid it daughters! Parents! shun this tale!But if my verse has charmed your thought,do not give me such credit in this part;convince yourself it cannot be true life;or, if against my wish you hear and mustbelieve it, then be sure to notice howsuch wickedness gets certain punishment.And yet, if Nature could permit such crimesas this to happen, I congratulateIsmarian people and all Thrace as well,and I congratulate this nation, whichwe know is far away from the land wherethis vile abomination did occur.The land we call Panchaia may be richin balsam, cinnamon, and costum sweetfor ointment, frankincense distilled from trees,with many flowers besides. All this large wealthcombined could never compensate the landfor this detestable, one crime: even thoughthe new Myrrh-Tree advanced on that rich soil.Cupid declares his weapons never causedan injury to Myrrha, and denieshis torches ever could have urged her crime.—one of the three bad sisters kindled this,with fire brand from the Styx, and poisoned youwith swollen vipers.—It is criminalto hate a parent, but love such as hersis certainly more criminal than hate.The chosen princes of all lands desireyou now in marriage, and young men throughoutthe Orient are vying for your hand.Choose, Myrrha one from all of these for yourgood husband; but exclude from such a thoughtyour father only. She indeed is quiteaware, and struggles bitterly againsther vile desires, and argues in her heart:—“What am I tending to? O listening GodsI pray for aid, I pray to Natural Love!Ah, may the sacred rights of parents keepthis vile desire from me, defend me froma crime so great—If it indeed is crime.I am not sure it is—I have not heardthat any god or written law condemnsthe union of a parent and his child.All animals will mate as they desire—a heifer may endure her sire, and whocondemns it? And the happy stud is notrefused by his mare-daughters: the he-goatconsorts unthought-of with the flock of whichhe is the father; and the birds conceiveof those from whom they were themselves begot.Happy are they who have such privilege!Malignant men have given spiteful laws;and what is right to Nature is decreedunnatural, by jealous laws of men.“But it is said there are some tribes today,in which the mother marries her own son;the daughter takes her father; and by this,the love kind Nature gives them is increasedinto a double bond.—Ah wretched me!Why was it not my fortune to be bornin that love-blessed land? I must abide,depressed by my misfortunes, in this place.“Why do I dwell on these forbidden hopes?Let me forget to think of lawless flame.My father is most worthy of my love,but only as a father.—If I werenot born the daughter of great Cinyras,I might be joined to him; but, as it stands,because he is mine he is never mine;because near to me he is far from me.“It would be better for me, if we werebut strangers to each other; for I then,could wish to go, and leave my native land,and so escape temptation to this crime:but my unhappy passion holds me here,that I may see Cinyras face to face,and touch him, talk with him and even kiss him—the best, if nothing else can be allowed.“But what more could be asked for, by the mostdepraved? Think of the many sacred tiesand loved names, you are dragging to the mire:the rival of your mother, will you bethe mistress of your father, and be namedthe sister of your son, and make yourselfthe mother of your brother? And will younot dread the sisters with black snakes for hair.Whom guilty creatures, such as you, can seebrandish relentless flames before their eyesand faces? While your body has not sinnedyou must not let sin creep into your heart,and violate great Nature's law with yourunlawful rovings. If you had the rightto long for his endearment, it could notbe possible. He is a virtuous manand is regardful of the moral law—oh how I wish my passion could be his!”And so she argued and declared her love:but Cinyras, her father, who was urgedby such a throng of suitors for her hand,that he could make no choice, at last inquiredof her, so she might make her heart's wish known.And as he named them over, asked her whichshe fixed her gaze upon her father's face,in doubtful agony what she could say,while hot tears filled her eyes. Her father, sureit all was of a virginal alarm,as he is telling her she need not weepdries her wet cheeks and kisses her sweet lips.Too much delighted with his gentle wordsand kind endearments, Myrrha, when he askedagain, which one might be her husband, said,“The one just like yourself.”, And he repliednot understanding what her heart would say,“You answer as a loving-daughter should.”When she heard “loving-daughter” said, the girltoo conscious of her guilt, looked on the ground.It was now midnight, peaceful sleep dissolvedthe world-care of all mortals, but of herwho, sleepless through the night, burnt in the flameof her misplaced affection. First despaircompels her to abandon every hope,and then she changes and resolves to try;and so she wavers from desire to shame,for she could not adhere to any plan.As a great tree, cut by the swinging axeis chopped until the last blow has been struck,then sways and threatens danger to all sides;so does her weak mind, cut with many blows,waver unsteadily—this way and that—and turning back and forth it finds no restfrom passion, save the rest that lies in death.The thought of death gave comfort to her heart.Resolved to hang herself, she sat upright;then, as she tied her girdle to a beam,she said, “Farewell, beloved Cinyras,and may you know the cause of my sad death.”And while she spoke those words, her fingers fixedthe noosed rope close around her death-pale neck.They say the murmur of despairing wordswas heard by her attentive nurse who watchedoutside the room. And, faithful as of old,she opened the shut door. But, when she sawthe frightful preparations made for death,the odd nurse screamed and beat and tore her breast,then seized and snatched the rope from Myrrha's neck;and after she had torn the noose apart,at last she had the time to weep and time,while she embraced the girl, to ask her whythe halter had been fastened round her neck.The girl in stubborn silence only fixedher eyes upon the ground—sad that her firstattempt at death, because too slow, was foiled.The old nurse-woman urged and urged, and showedher gray hair and her withered breasts, and beggedher by the memory of her cradle days,and baby nourishment, to hide no morefrom her long-trusted nurse what caused her grief.The girl turned from her questions with a sigh.The nurse, still more determined to know all,promised fidelity and her best aid—“Tell me,” she said, “and let me give you help;my old age offers means for your relief:if it be frantic passion, I have charmsand healing herbs; or, if an evil spellwas worked on you by someone, you shall becured to your perfect self by magic rites;or, if your actions have enraged the Gods,a sacrifice will satisfy their wrath.What else could be the cause? Your familyand you are prosperous—your mother dear,and your loved father are alive and well.”And, when she heard her say the name of father,a sigh heaved up from her distracted heart.But even after that the nurse could notconceive such evil in the girl's sick heart;and yet she had a feeling it must beonly a love affair could cause the crime:and with persistent purpose begged the cause.She pressed the weeping girl against her breast;and as she held her in her feeble arms,she said, “Sweet heart, I know you are in love:in this affair I am entirely yoursfor your good service, you must have no fear,your father cannot learn of it from me.,”just like a mad girl, Myrrha sprang away,and with her face deep-buried in a couch,sobbed out, “Go from me or stop asking memy cause of grief—it is a crime of shame—I cannot tell it!” Horrified the nursestretched forth her trembling hands, palsiedwith age and fear. She fell down at the feetof her loved foster-child, and coaxing herand frightening her, she threatened to discloseher knowledge of the halter and of whatshe knew of her attempted suicide;and after all was said, she gave her wordto help the girl, when she had given to hera true confession of her sad heart-love.The girl just lifted up her face, and laidit, weeping, on the bosom of her nurse.She tried so often to confess, and justas often checked her words, her shamed face hiddeep in her garment: “Oh”, at last she groans,“O mother blessed in your husband—oh!”Only that much she said and groaned. The nursefelt a cold horror stealing through her heartand frame, for she now understood it all.And her white hair stood bristling on her head,while with the utmost care of love and artshe strove to use appropriate words and deeds,to banish the mad passion of the girl.Though Myrrha knew that she was truly warned,she was resolved to die, unless she couldobtain the object of her wicked love.The nurse gave way at last as in defeat,and said, “Live and enjoy—” but did not dareto say, “your father”, did not finish, though,she promised and confirmed it with an oath.It was the time when matrons celebratethe annual festival of Ceres. Then,all robed in decent garments of snow-white,they bring garlands of precious wheat, which arefirst fruits of worship; and for nine nights theymust count forbidden every act of love,and shun the touch of man. And in that throng,Cenchreis, the king's wife, with constant careattended every secret rite: and sowhile the king's bed was lacking his true wife,one of those nights,—King Cinyras was drunkwith too much wine,—the scheming nurse informedhim of a girl most beautiful, whose lovefor him was passionate; in a false taleshe pictured a true passion. — When he askedthe maiden's age, she answered, “Just the sameas Myrrha's.” Bidden by the king to goand fetch her, the officious old nurse, whenshe found the girl, cried out; “Rejoice, my dear,we have contrived it!” The unhappy girlcould not feel genuine joy in her amazedand startled body. Her dazed mind was filledwith strange forebodings; but she did believeher heart was joyful.—Great excitement filledher wrecked heart with such inconsistencies.Now was the time when nature is at rest;between the Bears, Bootes turned his waindown to the west, and the guilty Myrrha turnsto her enormity. The golden moonflies from the heaven, and black clouds coverthe hiding stars and Night has lost her fires.The first to hide were stars of Icarusand of Erigone, in hallowed lovedevoted to her father. Myrrha thricewas warned by omen of her stumbling foot;the funeral screech-owl also warned her thrice,with dismal cry; yet Myrrha onward goes.It seems to her the black night lessens shame.She holds fast to her nurse with her left hand,and with the other hand gropes through the dark.And now they go until she finds the door.Now at the threshold of her father's room,she softly pushes back the door, her nursetakes her within. The girl's knees trembling sinkbeneath her. Her drawn bloodless face has lostits color, and while she moves to the crime,bad courage goes from her until afraidof her bold effort, she would gladly turnunrecognized. But as she hesitates,the aged crone still holds her by the hand;and leading her up to the high bed theredelivering Myrrha, says, “Now Cinyras,you take her, she is yours;” and leaves the pairdoomed in their crime — the father to pollutehis own flesh in his own bed; where he triesfirst to encourage her from maiden fears,by gently talking to the timid girl.He chanced to call her “daughter,” as a namebest suited to her age; and she in turn,endearing, called him “father”, so no namesmight be omitted to complete their guilt.She staggered from his chamber with the crimeof her own father hidden in her womb,and their guilt was repeated many nights;till Cinyras — determined he must knowhis mistress, after many meetings, broughta light and knew his crime had harmed his daughter.Speechless in shame he drew forth his bright swordout from the scabbard where it hung near by.—but frightened Myrrha fled, and so escapeddeath in the shadows of dark night. Gropingher pathless way at random through the fields,she left Arabia, famed for spreading palms,and wandered through Panchaean lands. Untilafter nine months of aimless wandering days,she rested in Sabaea, for she couldnot hold the burden she had borne so long.Not knowing what to pray for, moved alikeby fear of death and weariness of life,her wishes were expressed in prayer: “O Gods,if you will listen to my prayer, I donot shun a dreadful punishment deserved;but now because my life offends the living,and dying I offend the dead, drive mefrom both conditions; change me, and refusemy flesh both life and death!”Some god did listento her unnatural prayer; her last petitionhad answering gods. For even as she prayed,the earth closed over her legs; roots grew outand, stretching forth obliquely from her nails,gave strong support to her up-growing trunk;her bones got harder, and her marrow stillunchanged, kept to the center, as her bloodwas changed to sap, as her outstretching armsbecame long branches and her fingers twigs;and as her soft skin hardened into bark:and the fast-growing tree had closely boundher womb, still heavy, and had covered hersoft bosom; and was spreading quickly upto her neck.—She can not endure the strain,and sinking down into the rising wood,her whole face soon was hidden in the bark.Although all sense of human life was gone,as quickly as she lost her human form,her weeping was continued, and warm dropsdistilled from her (the tree) cease not to fall.There is a virtue even in her tears—the valued myrrh distilling from the trunk,keeps to her name, by which she still is known,and cannot be forgot of aging time.The guilt-begotten child had growth while woodwas growing, and endeavored now to finda way of safe birth. The tree-trunk was swellingand tightened against Myrrha, who, unableto express her torture, could not call uponLucina in the usual words of travail.But then just like a woman in great pain,the tree bends down and, while it groans, bedewsitself with falling tears. Lucina stoodin pity near the groaning branches, laidher hands on them, and uttered charms to aidthe hindered birth. The tree cracked open then,the bark was rent asunder, and it gave forthits living weight, a wailing baby-boy.The Naiads laid him on soft leaves, and theyanointed him with his own mother's tears.Even Envy would not fail to praise the child,as beautiful as naked cupids seenin chosen paintings. Only give to hima polished quiver, or take theirs from them,and no keen eye could choose him from their midst. Time gliding by without our knowledge cheats us,and nothing can be swifter than the years.That son of sister and grandfather, whowas lately hidden in his parent tree,just lately born, a lovely baby-boyis now a youth, now man more beautifulthan during growth. He wins the love of Venusand so avenges his own mother's passion.For while the goddess' son with quiver heldon shoulder, once was kissing his loved mother,it chanced unwittingly he grazed her breastwith a projecting arrow. Instantlythe wounded goddess pushed her son away;but the scratch had pierced her deeper than she thoughtand even Venus was at first deceived.Delighted with the beauty of the youth,she does not think of her Cytherian shoresand does not care for Paphos, which is girtby the deep sea, nor Cnidos, haunts of fish,nor Amathus far-famed for precious ores.Venus, neglecting heaven, prefers Adonisto heaven, and so she holds close to his waysas his companion, and forgets to restat noon-day in the shade, neglecting careof her sweet beauty. She goes through the woods,and over mountain ridges and wild fields,rocky and thorn-set, bare to her white kneesafter Diana's manner. And she cheersthe hounds, intent to hunt for harmless prey,such as the leaping hare, or the wild stag,high-crowned with branching antlers, or the doe.—she keeps away from fierce wild boars, awayfrom ravenous wolves; and she avoids the bearsof frightful claws, and lions glutted withthe blood of slaughtered cattle.She warns you,Adonis, to beware and fear them. If her fearsfor you were only heeded! “Oh be brave,”she says, “against those timid animalswhich fly from you; but courage is not safeagainst the bold. Dear boy, do not be rash,do not attack the wild beasts which are armedby nature, lest your glory may cost megreat sorrow. Neither youth nor beauty northe deeds which have moved Venus have effecton lions, bristling boars, and on the eyesand tempers of wild beasts. Boars have the forceof lightning in their curved tusks, and the rageof tawny lions is unlimited.I fear and hate them all.”When he inquiresthe reason, she says: “I will tell it; youwill be surprised to learn the bad resultcaused by an ancient crime.—But I am wearywith unaccustomed toil; and see! a poplarconvenient, offers a delightful shadeand this lawn gives a good couch. Let us restourselves here on the grass.” So saying, shereclined upon the turf and, pillowingher head against his breast and mingling kisseswith her words, she told him the following tale: Perhaps you may have heard of a swift maid,who ran much faster than swift-footed mencontesting in the race. What they have toldis not an idle tale.—She did excelthem all—and you could not have saidwhether her swift speed or her beauty wasmore worthy of your praise. When this maid onceconsulted with an oracle, of herfate after marriage, the god answered her:“You, Atalanta, never will have needof husband, who will only be your harm.For your best good you should avoid the tie;but surely you will not avoid your harm;and while yet living you will lose yourself.”She was so frightened by the oracle,she lived unwedded in far shaded woods;and with harsh terms repulsed insistent throngsof suitors. “I will not be won,” she said,“Till I am conquered first in speed. Contestthe race with me. A wife and couch shall bothbe given to reward the swift, but deathmust recompense the one who lags behind.This must be the condition of a race.”Indeed she was that pitiless, but suchthe power of beauty, a rash multitudeagreed to her harsh terms.Hippomeneshad come, a stranger, to the cruel race,with condemnation in his heart againstthe racing young men for their headstrong love;and said, “Why seek a wife at such a risk?”But when he saw her face, and perfect formdisrobed for perfect running, such a formas mine, Adonis, or as yours—if youwere woman—he was so astonished heraised up his hands and said, “Oh pardon mebrave men whom I was blaming, I could notthen realize the value of the prizeyou strove for.” And as he is praising her,his own heart leaping with love's fire, he hopesno young man may outstrip her in the race;and, full of envy, fears for the result.“But why,” he cries, “is my chance in the raceuntried? Divinity helps those who dare.”But while the hero weighed it in his mindthe virgin flew as if her feet had wings.Although she seemed to him in flight as swiftas any Scythian arrow, he admiredher beauty more; and her swift speed appearedin her most beautiful. The breeze bore backthe streamers on her flying ankles, whileher hair was tossed back over her white shoulders;the bright trimmed ribbons at her knees were fluttering,and over her white girlish body camea pink flush, just as when a purple awningacross a marble hall gives it a wealthof borrowed hues. And while Hippomenesin wonder gazed at her, the goal was reached;and Atalanta crowned victoriouswith festal wreath.—But all the vanquished youthspaid the death-penalty with sighs and groans,according to the stipulated bond.Not frightened by the fate of those young men,he stood up boldly in the midst of all;and fixing his strong eyes upon the maiden, said:“Where is the glory in an easy victoryover such weaklings? Try your fate with me!If fortune fail to favor you, how couldit shame you to be conquered by a man?Megareus of Onchestus is my father,his grandsire, Neptune, god of all the seas.I am descendant of the King of Waves:and add to this, my name for manly worthhas not disgraced the fame of my descent.If you should prove victorious againstthis combination, you will have achieveda great enduring name—the only onewho ever bested great Hippomenes.”While he was speaking, Atalanta's gazegrew softer, in her vacillating hopesto conquer and be conquered; till at last,her heart, unbalanced, argued in this way:“It must be some god envious of youth,wishing to spoil this one prompts him to seekwedlock with me and risk his own dear life.I am not worth the price, if I may judge.His beauty does not touch me—but I couldbe moved by it—I must consider heis but a boy. It is not he himselfwho moves me, but his youth. Sufficient causefor thought are his great courage and his soulfearless of death. What of his high descent;—great grandson of the King of all the seas?What of his love for me that has such greatimportance, he would perish if his fatedenied my marriage to him? O strange boy,go from me while you can; abandon hopeof this alliance stained with blood—A matchwith me is fatal. Other maids will notrefuse to wed you, and a wiser girlwill gladly seek your love.—But what concernis it of mine, when I but think of thosewho have already perished! Let him lookto it himself; and let him die. Since heis not warned by his knowledge of the fateof many other suitors, he declaresquite plainly, he is weary of his life.—“Shall he then die, because it must be hisone hope to live with me? And suffer deaththough undeserved, for me because he loves?My victory will not ward off the hate,the odium of the deed! But it is nota fault of mine.—Oh fond, fond man, I wouldthat you had never seen me! But you areso madly set upon it, I could wishyou may prove much the swifter! Oh how dearhow lovable is his young girlish face!—ah, doomed Hippomenes, I only wishmischance had never let you see me! Youare truly worthy of a life on earth.If I had been more fortunate, and notdenied a happy marriage day; I wouldnot share my bed with any man but you.”All this the virgin Atalanta said;and knowing nothing of the power of love,she is so ignorant of what she does,she loves and does not know she is in love.Meanwhile her father and the people, allloudly demanded the accustomed race.A suppliant, the young Hippomenesinvoked me with his anxious voice, “I prayto you, O Venus, Queen of Love, be nearand help my daring—smile upon the loveyou have inspired!” The breeze, not envious,wafted this prayer to me; and I confess,it was so tender it did move my heart—I had but little time to give him aid.There is a field there which the natives callthe Field Tamasus—the most prized of allthe fertile lands of Cyprus. This rich field,in ancient days, was set apart for me,by chosen elders who decreed it shouldenrich my temples yearly. In this fieldthere grows a tree, with gleaming golden leaves,and all its branches crackle with bright gold.Since I was coming from there, by some chance,I had three golden apples in my hand,which I had plucked. With them I planned to aidHippomenes. While quite invisibleto all but him, I taught him how to usethose golden apples for his benefit. The trumpet soon gave signal for the raceand both of them crouching flashed quickly forthand skimmed the surface of the sandy coursewith flying feet. You might even think those twocould graze the sea with unwet feet and passover the ripened heads of standing grain.Shouts of applause gave courage to the youth:the cheering multitude cried out to him:—“Now is the time to use your strength. Go on!Hippomenes! Bend to the work! You're sureto win!” It must be doubted who was mostrejoiced by those brave words, Megareus' son,or Schoeneus' daughter. Oh, how often, whenshe could have passed him, she delayed her speed;and after gazing long upon his facereluctantly again would pass him! Nowdry panting breath came from his weary throat—the goal still far away.—Then Neptune's scionthrew one of three gold apples. Atalantawith wonder saw it—eager to possessthe shining fruit, she turned out of her course,picked up the rolling gold. Hippomenespassed by her, while spectators roared applause.Increasing speed, she overcame delay,made up for time lost, and again she leftthe youth behind. She was delayed againbecause he tossed another golden apple.She followed him, and passed him in the race.The last part of the course remained. He cried“Be near me, goddess, while I use your gift.”With youthful might he threw the shining gold,in an oblique direction to the side,so that pursuit would mean a slow return.The virgin seemed to hesitate, in doubtwhether to follow after this third prize.I forced her to turn for it; take it up;and, adding weight to the gold fruit, she held,impeded her with weight and loss of time.For fear my narrative may stretch beyondthe race itself,—the maiden was outstripped;Hippomenes then led his prize away.Adonis, did I not deserve his thankswith tribute of sweet incense? But he wasungrateful, and, forgetful of my help,he gave me neither frankincense nor thanks.Such conduct threw me into sudden wrath,and, fretting at the slight, I felt I mustnot be despised at any future time.I told myself 'twas only right to makea just example of them. They were neara temple, hidden in the forest, whichglorious Echion in remembered timehad built to Rhea, Mother of the gods,in payment of a vow. So, wearied fromthe distance traveled, they were glad to havea needed rest. Hippomenes while there,was seized with love his heart could not control.—a passion caused by my divinity.Quite near the temple was a cave-like place,covered with pumice. It was hallowed byreligious veneration of the past.Within the shadows of that place, a priesthad stationed many wooden imagesof olden gods. The lovers entered thereand desecrated it. The imageswere scandalized, and turned their eyes away.The tower-crowned Mother, Cybele, at firstprepared to plunge the guilty pair beneaththe waves of Styx, but such a punishmentseemed light. And so their necks, that had been smooth.Were covered instantly with tawny manes;their fingers bent to claws; their arms were changedto fore-legs; and their bosoms held their weight;and with their tails they swept the sandy ground.Their casual glance is anger, and insteadof words they utter growls. They haunt the woods,a bridal-room to their ferocious taste.And now fierce lions they are terribleto all of life; except to Cybele;whose harness has subdued their champing jaws.My dear Adonis keep away from allsuch savage animals; avoid all thosewhich do not turn their fearful backs in flightbut offer their bold breasts to your attack,lest courage should be fatal to us both.Indeed she warned him. — Harnessing her swans,she traveled swiftly through the yielding air;but his rash courage would not heed advice.By chance his dogs, which followed a sure track,aroused a wild boar from his hiding place;and, as he rushed out from his forest lair,Adonis pierced him with a glancing stroke.Infuriate, the fierce boar's curved snoutfirst struck the spear-shaft from his bleeding side;and, while the trembling youth was seeking whereto find a safe retreat, the savage beastraced after him, until at last he sankhis deadly tusk deep in Adonis' groin;and stretched him dying on the yellow sand.And now sweet Aphrodite, borne through airin her light chariot, had not yet arrivedat Cyprus, on the wings of her white swans.Afar she recognized his dying groans,and turned her white birds towards the sound. And whendown looking from the lofty sky, she sawhim nearly dead, his body bathed in blood,she leaped down—tore her garment—tore her hair —and beat her bosom with distracted hands.And blaming Fate said, “But not everythingis at the mercy of your cruel power.My sorrow for Adonis will remain,enduring as a lasting monument.Each passing year the memory of his deathshall cause an imitation of my grief.“Your blood, Adonis, will become a flowerperennial. Was it not allowed to youPersephone, to transform Menthe's limbsinto sweet fragrant mint? And can this changeof my loved hero be denied to me?”Her grief declared, she sprinkled his blood withsweet-smelling nectar, and his blood as soonas touched by it began to effervesce,just as transparent bubbles always risein rainy weather. Nor was there a pausemore than an hour, when from Adonis, blood,exactly of its color, a loved flowersprang up, such as pomegranates give to us,small trees which later hide their seeds beneatha tough rind. But the joy it gives to manis short-lived, for the winds which give the flowerits name, Anemone, shake it right down,because its slender hold, always so weak,lets it fall to the ground from its frail stem.