GetPassage urn:cts:latinLit:phi0959.phi006.perseus-eng3:3.1-3.690 urn:cts:latinLit:phi0959.phi006.perseus-eng3:3.1-3.690

Now Jupiter had not revealed himself,nor laid aside the semblance of a bull,until they stood upon the plains of Crete.But not aware of this, her father badeher brother Cadmus search through all the world,until he found his sister, and proclaimedhim doomed to exile if he found her not;—thus was he good and wicked in one deed.When he had vainly wandered over the earth(for who can fathom the deceits of Jove?)Cadmus, the son of King Agenor, shunnedhis country and his father's mighty wrath.But he consulted the famed oraclesof Phoebus, and enquired of them what landmight offer him a refuge and a home.And Phoebus answered him; “When on the plainsa heifer, that has never known the yoke,shall cross thy path go thou thy way with her,and follow where she leads; and when she lies,to rest herself upon the meadow green,there shalt thou stop, as it will be a signfor thee to build upon that plain the wallsof a great city: and its name shall bethe City of Boeotia.”Cadmus turned;but hardly had descended from the cave,Castalian, ere he saw a heifer gounguarded, gentle-paced, without the scarsof labour on her neck. He followed closeupon her steps (and silently adoredcelestial Phoebus, author of his way)till over the channel that Cephissus wearshe forded to the fields of Panopeand even over to Boeotia.—there stood the slow-paced heifer, and she raisedher forehead, broad with shapely horns, towards Heaven;and as she filled the air with lowing, stretchedher side upon the tender grass, and turnedher gaze on him who followed in her path.Cadmus gave thanks and kissed the foreign soil,and offered salutation to the fieldsand unexplored hills. Then he preparedto make large sacrifice to Jupiter,and ordered slaves to seek the living springswhose waters in libation might be poured.There was an ancient grove, whose branching treeshad never known the desecrating ax,where hidden in the undergrowth a cave,with oziers bending round its low-formed arch,was hollowed in the jutting rocks—deep-foundin the dark center of that hallowed grove—beneath its arched roof a beauteous streamof water welled serene. Its gloom concealeda dragon, sacred to the war-like Mars;crested and gorgeous with radescent scales,and eyes that sparkled as the glow of coals.A deadly venom had puffed up his bulk,and from his jaws he darted forth three tongues,and in a triple row his sharp teeth stood.Now those who ventured of the Tyrian race,misfortuned followers of Cadmus, tookthe path that led them to this grove; and whenthey cast down-splashing in the springs an urn,the hidden dragon stretched his azure headout from the cavern's gloom, and vented forthterrific hissings. Horrified they droppedtheir urns. A sudden trembling shook their knees;and their life-blood was ice within their veins.The dragon wreathed his scales in rolling knots,and with a spring, entwisted in great folds,reared up his bulk beyond the middle rings,high in the air from whence was given his gazethe extreme confines of the grove below.A size prodigious, his enormous bulk,if seen extended where was naught to hide,would rival in its length the Serpent's folds,involved betwixt the planes of the Twin Bears.The terrified Phoenicians, whether armedfor conflict, or in flight precipitate,or whether held incapable from fear,he seized with sudden rage; stung them to death,or crushed them in the grasp of crushing folds,or blasted with the poison of his breath.High in the Heavens the sun small shadow madewhen Cadmus, wondering what detained his men,prepared to follow them. Clothed in a skintorn from a lion, he was armed, complete,with lance of glittering steel; and with a dart:but passing these he had a dauntless soul.When he explored the grove and there beheldthe lifeless bodies, and above them stretchedthe vast victorious dragon licking upthe blood that issued from their ghastly wounds;his red tongues dripping gore; then Cadmus filledwith rage and grief; “Behold, my faithful ones!I will avenge your deaths or I will share it!”He spoke; and lifted up a mill-stone huge,in his right hand, and having poised it, hurledwith a tremendous effort dealing sucha blow would crush the strongest builded walls;yet neither did the dragon flinch the shocknor was he wounded, for his armour-scales,fixed in his hard and swarthy hide, repelledthe dreadful impact. Not the javelin thus,so surely by his armoured skin was foiled,for through the middle segment of his spinethe steel point pierced, and sank beneath the flesh,deep in his entrails. Writhing in great painhe turned his head upon his bleeding back,twisting the shaft, with force prodigious shookit back and forth, and wrenched it from the wound;with difficulty wrenched it. But the steelremained securely fastened in his bones.Such agony but made increase of rage:his throat was swollen with great knotted veins;a white froth gathered on his poisonous jaws;the earth resounded with his rasping scales;he breathed upon the grass a pestilence,steaming mephitic from his Stygian mouth.His body writhes up in tremendous gyres;his folds, now straighter than a beam, untwist;he rushes forward on his vengeful foe,his great breast crushing the deep-rooted trees.Small space gave Cadmus to the dragon's rage,for by the lion's spoil he stood the shock,and thrusting in his adversary's jawsthe trusted lance gave check his mad career.Wild in his rage the dragon bit the steeland fixed his teeth on the keen-biting point:out from his poisoned palate streams of gorespouted and stained the green with sanguine spray.Yet slight the wound for he recoiled in time,and drew his wounded body from the spear;by shrinking from the sharp steel saved his throata mortal wound. But Cadmus as he pressedthe spear-point deeper in the serpent's throat,pursued him till an oak-tree barred the way;to this he fixed the dragon through the neck:the stout trunk bending with the monster's weight,groaned at the lashing of his serpent tail.

While the brave victor gazed upon the bulkenormous of his vanquished foe, a voicewas heard—from whence was difficult to know,but surely heard—“Son of Agenor, whyart thou here standing by this carcase-worm,for others shall behold thy body changedinto a serpent?” Terrified, amazed,he lost his colour and his self-control;his hair stood upright from the dreadful fright.But lo, the hero's watchful Deity,Minerva, from the upper realms of airappeared before him. She commanded himto sow the dragon's teeth in mellowed soil,from which might spring another race of men.And he obeyed: and as he plowed the land,took care to scatter in the furrowed soilthe dragon's teeth; a seed to raise up man.'Tis marvelous but true, when this was donethe clods began to move. A spear-point firstappeared above the furrows, followed nextby helmet-covered heads, nodding their cones;their shoulders, breasts and arms weighted with spears;and largely grew the shielded crop of men.—so is it in the joyful theaterswhen the gay curtains, rolling from the floor,are upward drawn until the scene is shown,—it seems as if the figures rise to view:first we behold their faces, then we seetheir bodies, and their forms by slow degreesappear before us on the painted cloth.Cadmus, affrighted by this host, preparedto arm for his defence; but one of thosefrom earth created cried; “Arm not! Awayfrom civil wars!” And with his trenchant swordhe smote an earth-born brother, hand to hand;even as the vanquished so the victor fell,pierced by a dart some distant brother hurled;and likewise he who cast that dart was slain:both breathing forth their lives upon the airso briefly theirs, expired together. Allas if demented leaped in sudden rage,each on the other, dealing mutual wounds.So, having lived the space allotted them,the youthful warriors perished as they smotethe earth (their blood-stained mother) with their breasts:and only five of all the troop remained;of whom Echion, by Minerva warned,called on his brothers to give up the fight,and cast his arms away in pledge of faith.—when Cadmus, exiled from Sidonia's gates,builded the city by Apollo named,these five were trusted comrades in his toil.Now Thebes is founded, who can deem thy daysunhappy in shine exile, Cadmus? Thou,the son-in-law of Mars and Venus; thou,whose glorious wife has borne to shine embracedaughters and sons? And thy grandchildren joinaround thee, almost grown to man's estate.—nor should we say, “He leads a happy life,”Till after death the funeral rites are paid.

Thy grandson, Cadmus, was the first to castthy dear felicity in sorrow's gloom.Oh, it was pitiful to witness him,his horns outbranching from his forehead, chasedby dogs that panted for their master's blood!If thou shouldst well inquire it will be shownhis sorrow was the crime of Fortune—nothis guilt—for who maintains mistakes are crimes?Upon a mountain stained with slaughtered game,the young Hyantian stood. Already day,increasing to meridian, made decreasethe flitting shadows, and the hot sun shonebetwixt extremes in equal distance. Suchthe hour, when speaking to his fellow friends,the while they wandered by those lonely haunts,actaeon of Hyantis kindly thus;“Our nets and steel are stained with slaughtered game,the day has filled its complement of sport;now, when Aurora in her saffron carbrings back the light of day, we may againrepair to haunts of sport. Now Phoebus hangsin middle sky, cleaving the fields with heat.—enough of toil; take down the knotted nets.”—all did as he commanded; and they soughttheir needed rest.There is a valley calledGargaphia; sacred to Diana, densewith pine trees and the pointed cypress, where,deep in the woods that fringed the valley's edge,was hollowed in frail sandstone and the softwhite pumice of the hills an arch, so trueit seemed the art of man; for Nature's touchingenious had so fairly wrought the stone,making the entrance of a grotto cool.Upon the right a limpid fountain ran,and babbled, as its lucid channel spreadinto a clear pool edged with tender grass.Here, when a-wearied with exciting sport,the Sylvan goddess loved to come and batheher virgin beauty in the crystal pool.After Diana entered with her nymphs,she gave her javelin, quiver and her bowto one accustomed to the care of arms;she gave her mantle to another nymphwho stood near by her as she took it off;two others loosed the sandals from her feet;but Crocale, the daughter of Ismenus,more skillful than her sisters, gathered upthe goddess' scattered tresses in a knot;—her own were loosely wantoned on the breeze.Then in their ample urns dipt up the waveand poured it forth, the cloud-nymph Nephele,the nymph of crystal pools called Hyale,the rain-drop Rhanis, Psecas of the dews,and Phyale the guardian of their urns.And while they bathed Diana in their streams,Actaeon, wandering through the unknown woods,entered the precincts of that sacred grove;with steps uncertain wandered he as fatedirected, for his sport must wait till morn.—soon as he entered where the clear springs welledor trickled from the grotto's walls, the nymphs,now ready for the bath, beheld the man,smote on their breasts, and made the woods resound,suddenly shrieking. Quickly gathered theyto shield Diana with their naked forms, but shestood head and shoulders taller than her guards.—as clouds bright-tinted by the slanting sun,or purple-dyed Aurora, so appearedDiana's countenance when she was seen.Oh, how she wished her arrows were at hand!But only having water, this she tookand dashed it on his manly countenance,and sprinkled with the avenging stream his hair,and said these words, presage of future woe;“Go tell it, if your tongue can tell the tale,your bold eyes saw me stripped of all my robes.”No more she threatened, but she fixed the hornsof a great stag firm on his sprinkled brows;she lengthened out his neck; she made his earssharp at the top; she changed his hands and feet;made long legs of his arms, and covered himwith dappled hair—his courage turned to fear.The brave son of Autonoe took to flight,and marveled that he sped so swiftly on.—he saw his horns reflected in a streamand would have said, “Ah, wretched me!” but nowhe had no voice, and he could only groan:large tears ran trickling down his face, transformedin every feature.—Yet, as clear remainedhis understanding, and he wondered whathe should attempt to do: should he returnto his ancestral palace, or plunge deepin vast vacuities of forest wilds?Fear made him hesitate to trust the woods,and shame deterred him from his homeward way.While doubting thus his dogs espied him there:first Blackfoot and the sharp nosed Tracer raisedthe signal: Tracer of the Gnossian breed,and Blackfoot of the Spartan: swift as windthe others followed. Glutton, Quicksight, Surefoot,three dogs of Arcady; then valiant Killbuck,Tempest, fierce Hunter, and the rapid Wingfoot;sharp-scented Chaser, and Woodranger woundedso lately by a wild boar; savage Wildwood,the wolf-begot with Shepherdess the cow-dog;and ravenous Harpy followed by her twin whelps;and thin-girt Ladon chosen from Sicyonia;racer and Barker, brindled Spot and Tiger;sturdy old Stout and white haired Blanche and black Smutlusty big Lacon, trusty Storm and Quickfoot;active young Wolfet and her Cyprian brotherblack headed Snap, blazed with a patch of white hairfrom forehead to his muzzle; swarthy Blackcoatand shaggy Bristle, Towser and Wildtooth,his sire of Dicte and his dam of Lacon;and yelping Babbler: these and others, morethan patience leads us to recount or name.All eager for their prey the pack surmountrocks, cliffs and crags, precipitous—where pathsare steep, where roads are none. He flies by routesso oft pursued but now, alas, his flightis from his own!—He would have cried, “Beholdyour master!—It is I—Actaeon!” Wordsrefused his will. The yelping pack pressed on.First Blackmane seized and tore his master's back,Savage the next, then Rover's teeth were clincheddeep in his shoulder.—These, though tardy out,cut through a by-path and arriving firstclung to their master till the pack came up.The whole pack fastened on their master's fleshtill place was none for others. Groaning hemade frightful sounds that not the human voicecould utter nor the stag; and filled the hillswith dismal moans; and as a suppliant felldown to the ground upon his trembling knees;and turned his stricken eyes on his own dogs,entreating them to spare him from their fangs.But his companions, witless of his plight,urged on the swift pack with their hunting cries.They sought Actaeon and they vainly called,“Actaeon! Hi! Actaeon!” just as thoughhe was away from them. Each time they calledhe turned his head. And when they chided him,whose indolence denied the joys of sport,how much he wished an indolent desirehad haply held him from his ravenous pack.Oh, how much;better 'tis to see the hunt,and the fierce dogs, than feel their savage deeds!They gathered round him, and they fixed their snoutsdeep in his flesh: tore him to pieces, hewhose features only as a stag appeared.—'Tis said Diana's fury raged with noneabatement till the torn flesh ceased to live.

Hapless Actaeon's end in various wayswas now regarded; some deplored his doom,but others praised Diana's chastity;and all gave many reasons. But the spouseof Jove, alone remaining silent, gavenor praise nor blame. Whenever calamitybefell the race of Cadmus she rejoiced,in secret, for she visited her rageon all Europa's kindred.Now a freshoccasion has been added to her grief,and wild with jealousy of Semele,her tongue as ever ready to her rage,lets loose a torrent of abuse;“Away!Away with words! Why should I speak of it?Let me attack her! Let me spoil that jade!Am I not Juno the supreme of Heaven?Queen of the flashing scepter? Am I notsister and wife of Jove omnipotent?She even wishes to be known by hima mother of a Deity, a joyalmost denied to me! Great confidencehas she in her great beauty—nevertheless,I shall so weave the web the bolt of Jovewould fail to save her.—Let the Gods denythat I am Saturn's daughter, if her shadedescend not stricken to the Stygian wave.”She rose up quickly from her shining throne,and hidden in a cloud of fiery huedescended to the home of Semele;and while encompassed by the cloud, transformedher whole appearance as to counterfeitold Beroe, an Epidaurian nurse,who tended Semele.Her tresses changedto grey, her smooth skin wrinkled and her stepgrown feeble as she moved with trembling limbs;—her voice was quavering as an ancient dame's,as Juno, thus disguised, began to talkto Semele. When presently the nameof Jove was mentioned—artful Juno thus;(doubtful that Jupiter could be her love)—“When Jove appears to pledge his love to you,implore him to assume his majestyand all his glory, even as he doesin presence of his stately Juno—Yea,implore him to caress you as a God.”With artful words as these the goddess workedupon the trusting mind of Semele,daughter of Cadmus, till she begged of Jovea boon, that only hastened her sad death;for Jove not knowing her design replied,“Whatever thy wish, it shall not be denied,and that thy heart shall suffer no distrust,I pledge me by that Deity, the Wavesof the deep Stygian Lake,—oath of the Gods.”All overjoyed at her misfortune, proudthat she prevailed, and pleased that she securedof him a promise, that could only causeher own disaster, Semele addressedalmighty Jove; “Come unto me in allthe splendour of thy glory, as thy mightis shown to Juno, goddess of the skies.”Fain would he stifle her disastrous tongue;before he knew her quest the words were said;and, knowing that his greatest oath was pledged,he sadly mounted to the lofty skies,and by his potent nod assembled therethe deep clouds: and the rain began to pour,and thunder-bolts resounded.But he stroveto mitigate his power, and armed him notwith flames overwhelming as had put to flighthis hundred-handed foe Typhoeus—flamestoo dreadful. Other thunder-bolts he took,forged by the Cyclops of a milder heat,with which insignia of his majesty,sad and reluctant, he appeared to her.—her mortal form could not endure the shockand she was burned to ashes in his sight.An unformed babe was rescued from her side,and, nurtured in the thigh of Jupiter,completed Nature's time until his birth.Ino, his aunt, in secret nursed the boyand cradled him. And him Nyseian nymphsconcealed in caves and fed with needful milk.

While these events according to the lawsof destiny occurred, and while the child,the twice-born Bacchus, in his cradle lay,'Tis told that Jupiter, a careless hour,indulged too freely in the nectar cup;and having laid aside all weighty cares,jested with Juno as she idled by.Freely the god began; “Who doubts the truth?The female's pleasure is a great delight,much greater than the pleasure of a male.”Juno denied it; wherefore 'twas agreedto ask Tiresias to declare the truth,than whom none knew both male and female joys:for wandering in a green wood he had seentwo serpents coupling; and he took his staffand sharply struck them, till they broke and fled.'Tis marvelous, that instant he becamea woman from a man, and so remainedwhile seven autumns passed. When eight were told,again he saw them in their former plight,and thus he spoke; “Since such a power was wrought,by one stroke of a staff my sex was changed—again I strike!” And even as he struckthe same two snakes, his former sex returned;his manhood was restored.—as both agreedto choose him umpire of the sportive strife,he gave decision in support of Jove;from this the disappointment Juno feltsurpassed all reason, and enraged, decreedeternal night should seal Tiresias' eyes.—immortal Deities may never turndecrees and deeds of other Gods to naught,but Jove, to recompense his loss of sight,endowed him with the gift of prophecy.

Tiresias' fame of prophecy was spreadthrough all the cities of Aonia,for his unerring answers unto allwho listened to his words. And first of thosethat harkened to his fateful prophecies,a lovely Nymph, named Liriope, camewith her dear son, who then fifteen, might seema man or boy—he who was born to herupon the green merge of Cephissus' stream—that mighty River-God whom she declaredthe father of her boy.—she questioned him.Imploring him to tell her if her son,unequalled for his beauty, whom she calledNarcissus, might attain a ripe old age.To which the blind seer answered in these words,“If he but fail to recognize himself,a long life he may have, beneath the sun,”—so, frivolous the prophet's words appeared;and yet the event, the manner of his death,the strange delusion of his frenzied love, confirmed it.Three times five years so were passed.Another five-years, and the lad might seema young man or a boy. And many a youth,and many a damsel sought to gain his love;but such his mood and spirit and his pride,none gained his favour.Once a noisy Nymph,(who never held her tongue when others spoke,who never spoke till others had begun)mocking Echo, spied him as he drove,in his delusive nets, some timid stags.—for Echo was a Nymph, in olden time,—and, more than vapid sound,—possessed a form:and she was then deprived the use of speech,except to babble and repeat the words,once spoken, over and over.Juno confusedher silly tongue, because she often heldthat glorious goddess with her endless tales,till many a hapless Nymph, from Jove's embrace,had made escape adown a mountain. Butfor this, the goddess might have caught them. Thusthe glorious Juno, when she knew her guile;“Your tongue, so freely wagged at my expense,shall be of little use; your endless voice,much shorter than your tongue.” At once the Nymphwas stricken as the goddess had decreed;—and, ever since, she only mocks the soundsof others' voices, or, perchance, returnstheir final words.One day, when she observedNarcissus wandering in the pathless woods,she loved him and she followed him, with softand stealthy tread.—The more she followed himthe hotter did she burn, as when the flameflares upward from the sulphur on the torch.Oh, how she longed to make her passion known!To plead in soft entreaty! to implore his love!But now, till others have begun, a muteof Nature she must be. She cannot choosebut wait the moment when his voice may giveto her an answer.Presently the youth,by chance divided from his trusted friends,cries loudly, “Who is here?” and Echo, “Here!”Replies. Amazed, he casts his eyes around,and calls with louder voice, “Come here!” “Come here!”She calls the youth who calls.—He turns to seewho calls him and, beholding naught exclaims,“Avoid me not!” “Avoid me not!” returns.He tries again, again, and is deceivedby this alternate voice, and calls aloud;“Oh let us come together!” Echo cries,“Oh let us come together!” Never soundseemed sweeter to the Nymph, and from the woodsshe hastens in accordance with her words,and strives to wind her arms around his neck.He flies from her and as he leaves her says,“Take off your hands! you shall not fold your armsaround me. Better death than such a oneshould ever caress me!” Naught she answers save,“Caress me!”Thus rejected she lies hidin the deep woods, hiding her blushing facewith the green leaves; and ever after livesconcealed in lonely caverns in the hills.But her great love increases with neglect;her miserable body wastes away,wakeful with sorrows; leanness shrivels upher skin, and all her lovely features melt,as if dissolved upon the wafting winds—nothing remains except her bones and voice—her voice continues, in the wilderness;her bones have turned to stone. She lies concealedin the wild woods, nor is she ever seenon lonely mountain range; for, though we hearher calling in the hills, 'tis but a voice,a voice that lives, that lives among the hills.Thus he deceived the Nymph and many more,sprung from the mountains or the sparkling waves;and thus he slighted many an amorous youth.—and therefore, some one whom he once despised,lifting his hands to Heaven, implored the Gods,“If he should love deny him what he loves!”and as the prayer was uttered it was heardby Nemesis, who granted her assent.There was a fountain silver-clear and bright,which neither shepherds nor the wild she-goats,that range the hills, nor any cattle's mouthhad touched—its waters were unsullied—birdsdisturbed it not; nor animals, nor boughsthat fall so often from the trees. Aroundsweet grasses nourished by the stream grew; treesthat shaded from the sun let balmy airstemper its waters. Here Narcissus, tiredof hunting and the heated noon, lay down,attracted by the peaceful solitudesand by the glassy spring. There as he stoopedto quench his thirst another thirst increased.While he is drinking he beholds himselfreflected in the mirrored pool—and loves;loves an imagined body which containsno substance, for he deems the mirrored shadea thing of life to love. He cannot move,for so he marvels at himself, and lieswith countenance unchanged, as if indeeda statue carved of Parian marble. Long,supine upon the bank, his gaze is fixedon his own eyes, twin stars; his fingers shapedas Bacchus might desire, his flowing hairas glorious as Apollo's, and his cheeksyouthful and smooth; his ivory neck, his mouthdreaming in sweetness, his complexion fairand blushing as the rose in snow-drift white.All that is lovely in himself he loves,and in his witless way he wants himself:—he who approves is equally approved;he seeks, is sought, he burns and he is burnt.And how he kisses the deceitful fount;and how he thrusts his arms to catch the neckthat's pictured in the middle of the stream!Yet never may he wreathe his arms aroundthat image of himself. He knows not whathe there beholds, but what he sees inflameshis longing, and the error that deceivesallures his eyes. But why, O foolish boy,so vainly catching at this flitting form?The cheat that you are seeking has no place.Avert your gaze and you will lose your love,for this that holds your eyes is nothing savethe image of yourself reflected back to you.It comes and waits with you; it has no life;it will depart if you will only go.

Nor food nor rest can draw him thence—outstretchedupon the overshadowed green, his eyesfixed on the mirrored image never may knowtheir longings satisfied, and by their sighthe is himself undone. Raising himselfa moment, he extends his arms around,and, beckoning to the murmuring forest; “Oh,ye aisled wood was ever man in lovemore fatally than I? Your silent pathshave sheltered many a one whose love was told,and ye have heard their voices. Ages vasthave rolled away since your forgotten birth,but who is he through all those weary yearsthat ever pined away as I? Alas,this fatal image wins my love, as Ibehold it. But I cannot press my armsaround the form I see, the form that givesme joy. What strange mistake has intervenedbetwixt us and our love? It grieves me morethat neither lands nor seas nor mountains, no,nor walls with closed gates deny our loves,but only a little water keeps us farasunder. Surely he desires my loveand my embraces, for as oft I striveto kiss him, bending to the limpid streammy lips, so often does he hold his facefondly to me, and vainly struggles up.It seems that I could touch him. 'Tis a strangedelusion that is keeping us apart.“Whoever thou art, Come up! Deceive me not!Oh, whither when I fain pursue art thou?Ah, surely I am young and fair, the Nymphshave loved me; and when I behold thy smilesI cannot tell thee what sweet hopes arise.When I extend my loving arms to theethine also are extended me — thy smilesreturn my own. When I was weeping, Ihave seen thy tears, and every sign I makethou cost return; and often thy sweet lipshave seemed to move, that, peradventure words,which I have never heard, thou hast returned.“No more my shade deceives me, I perceive'Tis I in thee—I love myself—the flamearises in my breast and burns my heart—what shall I do? Shall I at once implore?Or should I linger till my love is sought?What is it I implore? The thing that Idesire is mine—abundance makes me poor.Oh, I am tortured by a strange desireunknown to me before, for I would fainput off this mortal form; which only meansI wish the object of my love away.Grief saps my strength, the sands of life are run,and in my early youth am I cut off;but death is not my bane—it ends my woe.—I would not death for this that is my love,as two united in a single soulwould die as one.”He spoke; and crazed with love,returned to view the same face in the pool;and as he grieved his tears disturbed the stream,and ripples on the surface, glassy clear,defaced his mirrored form. And thus the youth,when he beheld that lovely shadow go;“Ah whither cost thou fly? Oh, I entreatthee leave me not. Alas, thou cruel boythus to forsake thy lover. Stay with methat I may see thy lovely form, for thoughI may not touch thee I shall feed my eyesand soothe my wretched pains.” And while he spokehe rent his garment from the upper edge,and beating on his naked breast, all whiteas marble, every stroke produced a tintas lovely as the apple streaked with red,or as the glowing grape when purple bloomtouches the ripening clusters.When as glassagain the rippling waters smoothed, and whensuch beauty in the stream the youth observed,no more could he endure. As in the flamethe yellow wax, or as the hoar-frost meltsin early morning 'neath the genial sun;so did he pine away, by love consumed,and slowly wasted by a hidden flame.No vermeil bloom now mingled in the whiteof his complexion fair; no strength has he,no vigor, nor the comeliness that wroughtfor love so long: alas, that handsome formby Echo fondly loved may please no more.But when she saw him in his hapless plight,though angry at his scorn, she only grieved.As often as the love-lore boy complained,“Alas!” “Alas!” her echoing voice returned;and as he struck his hands against his arms,she ever answered with her echoing sounds.And as he gazed upon the mirrored poolhe said at last, “Ah, youth beloved in vain!”“In vain, in vain!” the spot returned his words;and when he breathed a sad “farewell!” “Farewell!”sighed Echo too. He laid his wearied head,and rested on the verdant grass; and thosebright eyes, which had so loved to gaze, entranced,on their own master's beauty, sad Night closed.And now although among the nether shadeshis sad sprite roams, he ever loves to gazeon his reflection in the Stygian wave.His Naiad sisters mourned, and having clippedtheir shining tresses laid them on his corpse:and all the Dryads mourned: and Echo madelament anew. And these would have upraisedhis funeral pyre, and waved the flaming torch,and made his bier; but as they turned their eyeswhere he had been, alas he was not there!And in his body's place a sweet flower grew,golden and white, the white around the gold.

Narcissus' fate, when known throughout the landand cities of Achaia, added famedeserved, to blind Tiresias,—mighty seer.Yet Pentheus, bold despiser of the Gods,son of Echion, scoffed at all his praise,and, sole of man deriding the great seer,upbraided him his hapless loss of sight.And shaking his white temples, hoar with age.Tiresias of Pentheus prophesied,“Oh glad the day to thee, if, light denied,thine eyes, most fortunate, should not beholdthe Bacchanalian rites! The day will come,and soon the light will dawn, when Bacchus, bornof Semele, shall make his advent known—all hail the new god Bacchus! Either thoumust build a temple to this Deity,or shalt be torn asunder; thy remains,throughout the forest scattered, will pollutethe wood with sanguinary streams; and thylife-blood bespatter with corrupting blotsthy frenzied mother and her sisters twain.And all shall come to pass, as I have told,because thou wilt not honour the New God.And thou shalt wail and marvel at the sightof blind Tiresias, though veiled in night.”And as he spoke, lo, Pentheus drove the seer:but all his words, prophetic, were fulfilled,and confirmation followed in his steps.—Bacchus at once appears, and all the fieldsresound with shouts of everybody there.—men, brides and matrons, and a howling rout—nobles and commons and the most refined—a motley multitude—resistless borneto join those rites of Bacchus, there begun.Then Pentheus cries; “What madness, O ye bravedescendants of the Dragon! Sons of Mars!What frenzy has confounded you? Can soundsof clanging brass prevail; and pipes and horns,and magical delusions, drunkenness,and yelling women, and obscene displays,and hollow drums, overcome you, whom the sword,nor troops of war, nor trumpet could affright?“How shall I wonder at these ancient men,who, crossing boundless seas from distant Tyre,hither transferred their exiled Household Gods,and founded a new Tyre; but now are shorn,and even as captives would be led awaywithout appeal to Mars? And, O young men,of active prime whose vigor equals mine!Cast down your ivy scepters; take up arms;put on your helmets; strip your brows of leaves;be mindful of the mighty stock you are,and let your souls be animated withthe spirit of that dauntless dragon, which,unaided, slew so many, and at lastdied to defend his fountain and his lake.—so ye may conquer in the hope of fame.“He gave the brave to death, but with your armsye shall expel the worthless, and enhancethe glory of your land. If Fate decreethe fall of Thebes, Oh, let the enginesof war and men pull down its walls, and letthe clash of steel and roaring flames resound.Thus, blameless in great misery, our woeswould be the theme of lamentations, knownto story; and our tears would shame us not.“But now an unarmed boy will conquer Thebes:a lad whom neither weapons, wars nor steedsdelight; whose ringlets reek with myrrh; adornedwith chaplets, purple and embroidered robesof interwoven gold. Make way for me!And I will soon compel him to confesshis father is assumed and all his ritesare frauds.“If in days gone Acrisiusso held this vain god in deserved contempt,and shut the Argive gates against his face,why, therefore, should not Pentheus close the gatesof Thebes, with equal courage—Hence! Away!Fetch the vile leader of these riotersin chains! Let not my mandate be delayed.”Him to restrain his grandsire, Cadmus, strove;and Athamas, and many of his trusted friendsunited in vain efforts to rebukehis reckless rage; but greater violencewas gained from every admonition.—his rage increased the more it was restrained,and injury resulted from his friends.So have I seen a stream in open course,run gently on its way with pleasant noise,but whensoever logs and rocks detained,it foamed, with violence increased, againstobstruction.Presently returning camehis servants stained with blood, to whom he said,“What have ye done with Bacchus?” And to himthey made reply; “Not Bacchus have we seen,but we have taken his attendant lad,the chosen servant of his sacred rites.”And they delivered to the noble king,a youth whose hands were lashed behind his back.Then Pentheus, terrible in anger, turnedhis awful gaze upon the lad, and thoughhe scarce deferred his doom, addressed him thus;“Doomed to destruction, thou art soon to giveexample to my people by thy death:tell me thy name; what are thy parents called;where is thy land; and wherefore art thou foundattendant on these Bacchanalian rites.”

But fearless he replied; “They call my nameAcoetes; and Maeonia is the landfrom whence I came. My parents were so poor,my father left me neither fruitful fields,tilled by the lusty ox, nor fleecy sheep,nor lowing kine; for, he himself was poor,and with his hook and line was wont to catchthe leaping fishes, landed by his rod.His skill was all his wealth. And when to mehe gave his trade, he said, ‘You are the heirof my employment, therefore unto youall that is mine I give,’ and, at his death,he left me nothing but the running waves. —they are the sum of my inheritance.“And, afterwhile, that I might not be boundforever to my father's rocky shores,I learned to steer the keel with dextrous hand;and marked with watchful gaze the guiding stars;the watery Constellation of the Goat,Olenian, and the Bear, the Hyades,the Pleiades, the houses of the winds,and every harbour suitable for ships.“So chanced it, as I made for Delos, firstI veered close to the shores of Chios: thereI steered, by plying on the starboard oar,and nimbly leaping gained the sea-wet strand.“Now when the night was past and lovely dawnappeared, I,rose from slumber, and I bademy men to fetch fresh water, and I showedthe pathway to the stream. Then did I climba promontory's height, to learn from therethe promise of the winds; which having done,I called the men and sought once more my ship.Opheltes, first of my companions, cried,‘Behold we come!’ And, thinking he had caughta worthy prize in that unfruitful land,he led a boy, of virgin-beauty formed,across the shore.“Heavy with wine and sleepthe lad appeared to stagger on his way,—with difficulty moving. When I sawthe manner of his dress, his countenanceand grace, I knew it was not mortal man,and being well assured, I said to them;‘What Deity abideth in that formI cannot say; but 'tis a god in truth.—O whosoever thou art, vouchsafe to uspropitious waters; ease our toils, and grantto these thy grace.’“At this, the one of allmy mariners who was the quickest hand,who ever was the nimblest on the yards,and first to slip the ropes, Dictys exclaimed;‘Pray not for us!’ and all approved his words.The golden haired, the guardian of the prow,Melanthus, Libys and Alcimedonapproved it; and Epopeus who should urgethe flagging spirits, and with rhythmic chantsgive time and measure to the beating oars,and all the others praised their leader's words,—so blind is greed of gain.—Then I rejoined,‘Mine is the greatest share in this good ship,which I will not permit to be destroyed,nor injured by this sacred freight:’ and Iopposed them as they came.“Then Lycabas,the most audacious of that impious crew,began to rage. He was a criminal,who, for a dreadful murder, had been sentin exile from a Tuscan city's gates.Whilst I opposed he gripped me by the throat,and shook me as would cast me in the deep,had I not firmly held a rope, half stunned:and all that wicked crew approved the deed.“Then Bacchus (be assured it was the God)as though the noise disturbed his lethargyfrom wine, and reason had regained its power,at last bespake the men, ‘What deeds are these?What noise assails my ears? What means decoyedmy wandering footsteps? Whither do ye lead?’‘Fear not,’ the steersman said, ‘but tell us fairthe haven of your hope, and you shall landwhereso your heart desires.’ ‘To Naxos steer,’Quoth Bacchus, ‘for it is indeed my home,and there the mariner finds welcome cheer.’Him to deceive, they pledged themselves, and sworeby Gods of seas and skies to do his will:and they commanded me to steer that way.“The Isle of Naxos was upon our right;and when they saw the sails were set that way,they all began to shout at once, ‘What, ho!Thou madman! what insanity is this,Acoetes? Make our passage to the left.’And all the while they made their meaning knownby artful signs or whispers in my ears.“I was amazed and answered, ‘Take the helm.’And I refused to execute their will,atrocious, and at once resigned command.Then all began to murmur, and the crewreviled me. Up Aethalion jumped and said,‘As if our only safety is in you!’With this he swaggered up and took command;and leaving Naxos steered for other shores.“Then Bacchus, mocking them,—as if but thenhe had discovered their deceitful ways,—looked on the ocean from the rounded stern,and seemed to sob as he addressed the men;‘Ah mariners, what alien shores are these?'Tis not the land you promised nor the portmy heart desires. For what have I deservedthis cruel wrong? What honour can accrueif strong men mock a boy; a lonely youthif many should deceive?’ And as he spoke,I, also, wept to see their wickedness.“The impious gang made merry at our tears,and lashed the billows with their quickening oars.By Bacchus do I swear to you (and naughtcelestial is more potent) all the thingsI tell you are as true as they surpassthe limit of belief. The ship stood stillas if a dry dock held it in the sea.—“The wondering sailors laboured at the oars,and they unfurled the sails, in hopes to gainsome headway, with redoubled energies;but twisting ivy tangled in the oars,and interlacing held them by its weight.And Bacchus in the midst of all stood crownedwith chaplets of grape-leaves, and shook a lancecovered with twisted fronds of leafy vines.Around him crouched the visionary formsof tigers, lynxes, and the mottled shapesof panthers.“Then the mariners leaped out,possessed by fear or madness. Medon firstbegan to turn a swarthy hue, and finsgrew outward from his flattened trunk,and with a curving spine his body bent.—then Lycabas to him, ‘What prodigyis this that I behold?’ Even as he spoke,his jaws were broadened and his nose was bent;his hardened skin was covered with bright scales.And Libys, as he tried to pull the oars,could see his own hands shrivel into fins;another of the crew began to graspthe twisted ropes, but even as he stroveto lift his arms they fastened to his sides;—with bending body and a crooked backhe plunged into the waves, and as he swamdisplayed a tail, as crescent as the moon.“Now here, now there, they flounce about the ship;they spray her decks with brine; they rise and sink;they rise again, and dive beneath the waves;they seem in sportive dance upon the main;out from their nostrils they spout sprays of brine;they toss their supple sides. And I alone,of twenty mariners that manned that ship,remained. A cold chill seized my limbs,—I was so frightened; but the gracious Godnow spake me fair, ‘Fear not and steer for Naxos.’And when we landed there I ministeredon smoking altars Bacchanalian rites.”

But Pentheus answered him: “A parlous tale,and we have listened to the dreary end,hoping our anger might consume its rage;—away with him! hence drag him, hurl him out,with dreadful torture, into Stygian night.”Quickly they seized and dragged Acoetes forth,and cast him in a dungeon triple-strong.And while they fixed the instruments of death,kindled the fires, and wrought the cruel irons,the legend says, though no one aided him,the chains were loosened and slipped off his arms;the doors flew open of their own accord.But Pentheus, long-persisting in his rage,not caring to command his men to go,himself went forth to Mount Cithaeron, whereresound with singing and with shrilly notethe votaries of Bacchus at their rites.As when with sounding brass the trumpeteralarms of war, the mettled charger neighsand scents the battle; so the clamored skiesresounding with the dreadful outcries fretthe wrath of Pentheus and his rage enflame.About the middle of the mount (with grovesaround its margin) was a treeless plain,where nothing might conceal. Here as he stoodto view the sacred rites with impious eyes,his mother saw him first. She was so wroughtwith frenzy that she failed to know her son,and cast her thyrsus that it wounded him;and shouted, “Hi! come hither, Ho!Come hither my two sisters! a great boarhath strayed into our fields; come! see me strikeand wound him!”As he fled from them in frightthe raging multitude rushed after him;and, as they gathered round; in cowardicehe cried for mercy and condemned himself,confessing he had sinned against a God.And as they wounded him he called his aunt;“Autonoe have mercy! Let the shadeof sad Actaeon move thee to relent!”No pity moved her when she heard that name;in a wild frenzy she forgot her son.While Pentheus was imploring her, she torehis right arm out; her sister Ino wrenchedthe other from his trunk. He could not stretchhis arms out to his mother, but he cried,“Behold me, mother!” When Agave saw,his bleeding limbs, torn, scattered on the ground,she howled, and tossed her head, and shook her hairthat streamed upon the breeze; and when his headwas wrenched out from his mangled corpse,she clutched it with her blood-smeared fingers, whileshe shouted, “Ho! companions! victory!The victory is ours!” So when the windstrips from a lofty tree its leaves, which touchedby autumn's cold are loosely held, they fallnot quicker than the wretch's bleeding limbswere torn asunder by their cursed hands.Now, frightened by this terrible event,the women of Ismenus celebratethe new Bacchantian rites; and they reverethe sacred altars, heaped with frankincense.