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.

Book 4

Alcithoe, daughter of King Minyas,consents not to the orgies of the God;denies that Bacchus is the son of Jove,and her two sisters join her in that crime.'Twas festal-day when matrons and their maids,keeping it sacred, had forbade all toil.—And having draped their bosoms with wild skins,they loosed their long hair for the sacred wreaths,and took the leafy thyrsus in their hands;—for so the priest commanded them. Austerethe wrath of Bacchus if his power be scorned.Mothers and youthful brides obeyed the priest;and putting by their wickers and their webs,dropt their unfinished toils to offer upfrankincense to the God; invoking himwith many names:—“O Bacchus! O Twice-born!O Fire-begot! Thou only child Twice-mothered!God of all those who plant the luscious grape!O Liber!” All these names and many more,for ages known—throughout the lands of Greece.“Thy youth is not consumed by wasting time;and lo, thou art an ever-youthful boy,most beautiful of all the Gods of Heaven,smooth as a virgin when thy horns are hid.—The distant east to tawny India's clime,where rolls remotest Ganges to the sea,was conquered by thy might.—O Most-revered!Thou didst destroy the doubting Pentheus,and hurled the sailors' bodies in the deep,and smote Lycurgus, wielder of the ax.“And thou dost guide thy lynxes, double-yoked,with showy harness.—Satyrs follow thee;and Bacchanals, and old Silenus, drunk,unsteady on his staff; jolting so roughon his small back-bent ass; and all the wayresounds a youthful clamour; and the screamsof women! and the noise of tambourines!And the hollow cymbals! and the boxwood flutes,—fitted with measured holes.—Thou art imploredby all Ismenian women to appearpeaceful and mild; and they perform thy rites.”Only the daughters of King Minyasare carding wool within their fastened doors,or twisting with their thumbs the fleecy yarn,or working at the web. So they corruptthe sacred festival with needless toil,keeping their hand-maids busy at the work.And one of them, while drawing out the threadwith nimble thumb, anon began to speak;“While others loiter and frequent these ritesfantastic, we the wards of Pallas, muchto be preferred, by speaking novel thoughtsmay lighten labour. Let us each in turn,relate to an attentive audience,a novel tale; and so the hours may glide.”it pleased her sisters, and they ordered herto tell the story that she loved the most.So, as she counted in her well-stored mindthe many tales she knew, first doubted shewhether to tell the tale of Derceto,—that Babylonian, who, aver the tribesof Palestine, in limpid ponds yet lives,—her body changed, and scales upon her limbs;or how her daughter, having taken wings,passed her declining years in whitened towers.Or should she tell of Nais, who with herbs,too potent, into fishes had transformedthe bodies of her lovers, till she metherself the same sad fate; or of that treewhich sometime bore white fruit, but now is changedand darkened by the blood that stained its roots.—Pleased with the novelty of this, at onceshe tells the tale of Pyramus and Thisbe;—and swiftly as she told it unto them,the fleecy wool was twisted into threads.

When Pyramus and Thisbe, who were knownthe one most handsome of all youthful men,the other loveliest of all eastern girls,—lived in adjoining houses, near the wallsthat Queen Semiramis had built of brickaround her famous city, they grew fond,and loved each other—meeting often there—and as the days went by their love increased.They wished to join in marriage, but that joytheir fathers had forbidden them to hope;and yet the passion that with equal strengthinflamed their minds no parents could forbid.No relatives had guessed their secret love,for all their converse was by nods and signs;and as a smoldering fire may gather heat,the more 'tis smothered, so their love increased.Now, it so happened, a partition builtbetween their houses, many years ago,was made defective with a little chink;a small defect observed by none, althoughfor ages there; but what is hid from love?Our lovers found the secret opening,and used its passage to convey the soundsof gentle, murmured words, whose tuneful notepassed oft in safety through that hidden way.There, many a time, they stood on either side,thisbe on one and Pyramus the other,and when their warm breath touched from lip to lip,their sighs were such as this: “Thou envious wallwhy art thou standing in the way of thosewho die for love? What harm could happen theeshouldst thou permit us to enjoy our love?But if we ask too much, let us persuadethat thou wilt open while we kiss but once:for, we are not ungrateful; unto theewe own our debt; here thou hast left a waythat breathed words may enter loving ears.,”so vainly whispered they, and when the nightbegan to darken they exchanged farewells;made presence that they kissed a fond farewellvain kisses that to love might none avail.When dawn removed the glimmering lamps of night,and the bright sun had dried the dewy grassagain they met where they had told their love;and now complaining of their hapless fate,in murmurs gentle, they at last resolved,away to slip upon the quiet night,elude their parents, and, as soon as free,quit the great builded city and their homes.Fearful to wander in the pathless fields,they chose a trysting place, the tomb of Ninus,where safely they might hide unseen, beneaththe shadow of a tall mulberry tree,covered with snow-white fruit, close by a spring.All is arranged according to their hopes:and now the daylight, seeming slowly moved,sinks in the deep waves, and the tardy nightarises from the spot where day declines.Quickly, the clever Thisbe having firstdeceived her parents, opened the closed door.She flitted in the silent night away;and, having veiled her face, reached the great tomb,and sat beneath the tree; love made her bold.There, as she waited, a great lionessapproached the nearby spring to quench her thirst:her frothing jaws incarnadined with bloodof slaughtered oxen. As the moon was bright,Thisbe could see her, and affrighted fledwith trembling footstep to a gloomy cave;and as she ran she slipped and dropped her veil,which fluttered to the ground. She did not dareto save it. Wherefore, when the savage beasthad taken a great draft and slaked her thirst,and thence had turned to seek her forest lair,she found it on her way, and full of rage,tore it and stained it with her bloody jaws:but Thisbe, fortunate, escaped unseen.Now Pyramus had not gone out so soonas Thisbe to the tryst; and, when he sawthe certain traces of that savage beast,imprinted in the yielding dust, his facewent white with fear; but when he found the veilcovered with blood, he cried; “Alas, one nighthas caused the ruin of two lovers! Thouwert most deserving of completed days,but as for me, my heart is guilty! Idestroyed thee! O my love! I bade thee comeout in the dark night to a lonely haunt,and failed to go before. Oh! whatever lurksbeneath this rock, though ravenous lion, tearmy guilty flesh, and with most cruel jawsdevour my cursed entrails! What? Not so;it is a craven's part to wish for death!”So he stopped briefly; and took up the veil;went straightway to the shadow of the tree;and as his tears bedewed the well-known veil,he kissed it oft and sighing said, “Kissesand tears are thine, receive my blood as well.”And he imbrued the steel, girt at his side,deep in his bowels; and plucked it from the wound,a-faint with death. As he fell back to earth,his spurting blood shot upward in the air;so, when decay has rift a leaden pipea hissing jet of water spurts on high.—By that dark tide the berries on the treeassumed a deeper tint, for as the rootssoaked up the blood the pendent mulberrieswere dyed a purple tint.Thisbe returned,though trembling still with fright, for now she thoughther lover must await her at the tree,and she should haste before he feared for her.Longing to tell him of her great escapeshe sadly looked for him with faithful eyes;but when she saw the spot and the changed tree,she doubted could they be the same, for sothe colour of the hanging fruit deceived.While doubt dismayed her, on the ground she sawthe wounded body covered with its blood;—she started backward, and her face grew paleand ashen; and she shuddered like the sea,which trembles when its face is lightly skimmedby the chill breezes;—and she paused a space;—but when she knew it was the one she loved,she struck her tender breast and tore her hair.Then wreathing in her arms his loved form,she bathed the wound with tears, mingling her griefin his unquenched blood; and as she kissedhis death-cold features wailed; “Ah Pyramus,what cruel fate has taken thy life away?Pyramus! Pyramus! awake! awake!It is thy dearest Thisbe calls thee! Liftthy drooping head! Alas,”—At Thisbe's namehe raised his eyes, though languorous in death,and darkness gathered round him as he gazed.And then she saw her veil; and near it layhis ivory sheath—but not the trusty sword and once again she wailed; “Thy own right hand,and thy great passion have destroyed thee!—And I? my hand shall be as bold as thine—my love shall nerve me to the fatal deed—thee, I will follow to eternity—though I be censured for the wretched cause,so surely I shall share thy wretched fate:—alas, whom death could me alone bereave,thou shalt not from my love be reft by death!And, O ye wretched parents, mine and his,let our misfortunes and our pleadings meltyour hearts, that ye no more deny to thosewhom constant love and lasting death unite—entomb us in a single sepulchre.“And, O thou tree of many-branching boughs,spreading dark shadows on the corpse of one,destined to cover twain, take thou our fateupon thy head; mourn our untimely deaths;let thy fruit darken for a memory,an emblem of our blood.” No more she said;and having fixed the point below her breast,she fell on the keen sword, still warm with his red blood.But though her death was out of Nature's lawher prayer was answered, for it moved the Godsand moved their parents. Now the Gods have changedthe ripened fruit which darkens on the branch:and from the funeral pile their parents sealedtheir gathered ashes in a single urn.

So ended she; at once Leuconoetook the narrator's thread; and as she spokeher sisters all were silent.“Even the Sunthat rules the world was captive made of Love.My theme shall be a love-song of the Sun.'Tis said the Lord of Day, whose wakeful eyebeholds at once whatever may transpire,witnessed the loves of Mars and Venus. Grievedto know the wrong, he called the son of Juno,Vulcan, and gave full knowledge of the deed,showing how Mars and Venus shamed his love,as they defiled his bed. Vulcan amazed,—the nimble-thoughted Vulcan lost his wits,so that he dropped the work his right hand held.But turning from all else at once he setto file out chains of brass, delicate, fine,from which to fashion nets invisible,filmy of mesh and airy as the threadof insect-web, that from the rafter swings.—Implicit woven that they yielded softthe slightest movement or the gentlest touch,with cunning skill he drew them round the bedwhere they were sure to dally. Presentlyappeared the faithless wife, and on the couchlay down to languish with her paramour.—Meshed in the chains they could not thence arise,nor could they else but lie in strict embrace,—cunningly thus entrapped by Vulcan's wit.—At once the Lemnian cuckold opened widethe folding ivory doors and called the Gods,—to witness. There they lay disgraced and bound.I wot were many of the lighter Godswho wished themselves in like disgraceful bonds.—The Gods were moved to laughter: and the talewas long most noted in the courts of Heaven.The Cytherean Venus brooded onthe Sun's betrayal of her stolen joys,and thought to torture him in passion's pains,and wreak requital for the pain he caused.Son of Hyperion! what avails thy light?What is the profit of thy glowing heat?Lo, thou whose flames have parched innumerous lands,thyself art burning with another flame!And thou whose orb should joy the universeart gazing only on Leucothea's charms.Thy glorious eye on one fair maid is fixed,forgetting all besides. Too early thouart rising from thy bed of orient skies,too late thy setting in the western waves;so taking time to gaze upon thy love,thy frenzy lengthens out the wintry hour!And often thou art darkened in eclipse,dark shadows of this trouble in thy mind,unwonted aspect, casting man perplexedin abject terror. Pale thou art, though notbetwixt thee and the earth the shadowous moonbedims thy devious way. Thy passion givesto grief thy countenance—for her thy heartalone is grieving—Clymene and Rhodos,and Persa, mother of deluding Circe,are all forgotten for thy doting hope;even Clytie, who is yearning for thy love,no more can charm thee; thou art so foredone.Leucothea is the cause of many tears,Leucothea, daughter of Eurynome,most beauteous matron of Arabia's strand,where spicey odours blow. Eurynomein youthful prime excelled her mother's grace,and, save her daughter, all excelled besides.Leucothea's father, Orchamas was kingwhere Achaemenes whilom held the sway;and Orchamas from ancient Belus' deathmight count his reign the seventh in descent.The dark-night pastures of Apollo's steedsare hid below the western skies; when there,and spent with toil, in lieu of nibbling herbsthey take ambrosial food: it gives their limbsrestoring strength and nourishes anew.Now while these coursers eat celestial foodand Night resumes his reign, the god appearsdisguised, unguessed, as old Eurynometo fair Leucothea as she draws the threads,all smoothly twisted from her spindle. Thereshe sits with twice six hand-maids ranged around,and as the god beholds her at the doorhe kisses her, as if a child belovedand he her mother. And he spoke to her:“Let thy twelve hand-maids leave us undisturbed,for I have things of close import to tell,and seemly, from a mother to her child.”,so when they all withdrew the god began,“Lo, I am he who measures the long year;I see all things, and through me the wide worldmay see all things; I am the glowing eyeof the broad universe! Thou art to methe glory of the earth!” Filled with alarm,from her relaxed fingers she let fallthe distaff and the spindle, but, her fearso lovely in her beauty seemed, the Godno longer brooked delay: he changed his formback to his wonted beauty and resumedhis bright celestial. Startled at the sightthe maid recoiled a space; but presentlythe glory of the god inspired her love;and all her timid doubts dissolved away;without complaint she melted in his arms.So ardently the bright Apollo loved,that Clytie, envious of Leucothea's joy,where evil none was known, a scandal made;and having published wide their secret love,leucothea's father also heard the tale.Relentlessly and fierce, his cruel handburied his living daughter in the ground,who, while her arms implored the glowing Sun,complained. “For love of thee my life is lost.”And as she wailed her father sowed her there.Hyperion's Son began with piercing heatto scatter the loose sand, a way to open,that she might look with beauteous features forthtoo late! for smothered by the compact earth,thou canst not lift thy drooping head; alas!A lifeless corse remains.No sadder sightsince Phaethon was blasted by the bolt,down-hurled by Jove, had ever grieved the Godwho daily drives his winged steeds. In vainhe strives with all the magic of his raysto warm her limbs anew. — The deed is done—what vantage gives his might if fate deny?He sprinkles fragrant nectar on her grave,and lifeless corse, and as he wails exclaims,“But naught shall hinder you to reach the skies.”At once the maiden's body, steeped in dewsof nectar, sweet and odourate, dissolvesand adds its fragrant juices to the earth:slowly from this a sprout of Frankincensetakes root in riched soil, and bursting throughthe sandy hillock shows its top.No moreto Clytie comes the author of sweet light,for though her love might make excuse of grief,and grief may plead to pardon jealous words,his heart disdains the schemist of his woe;and she who turned to sour the sweet of love,from that unhallowed moment pined away.Envious and hating all her sister Nymphs,day after day,—and through the lonely nights,all unprotected from the chilly breeze,her hair dishevelled, tangled, unadorned,she sat unmoved upon the bare hard ground.Nine days the Nymph was nourished by the dews,or haply by her own tears' bitter brine;—all other nourishment was naught to her.—She never raised herself from the bare ground,though on the god her gaze was ever fixed;—she turned her features towards him as he moved:they say that afterwhile her limbs took rootand fastened to the around.A pearly whiteoverspread her countenance, that turned as paleand bloodless as the dead; but here and therea blushing tinge resolved in violet tint;and something like the blossom of that namea flower concealed her face. Although a rootnow holds her fast to earth, the Heliotropeturns ever to the Sun, as if to provethat all may change and love through all remain.

Thus was the story ended. All were charmedto hear recounted such mysterious deeds.While some were doubting whether such were trueothers affirmed that to the living Godsis nothing to restrain their wondrous works,though surely of the Gods, immortal, noneaccorded Bacchus even thought or place.When all had made an end of argument,they bade Alcithoe take up the word:she, busily working on the pendent web,still shot the shuttle through the warp and said;“The amours of the shepherd Daphnis, knownto many of you, I shall not relate;the shepherd Daphnis of Mount Ida, whowas turned to stone obdurate, for the Nymphwhose love he slighted—so the rivalryof love neglected rouses to revenge:neither shall I relate the story toldof Scython, double-sexed, who first was man,then altered to a woman: so I passthe tale of Celmus turned to adamant,who reared almighty Jove from tender youth:so, likewise the Curetes whom the rainbrought forth to life: Smilax and Crocus, too,transpeciated into little flowers:all these I pass to tell a novel tale,which haply may resolve in pleasant thoughts.Learn how the fountain, Salmacis, becameso infamous; learn how it enervatesand softens the limbs of those who chance to bathe.Although the fountain's properties are known,the cause is yet unknown. The Naiads nursedan infant son of Hermes, surely hisof Aphrodite gotten in the cavesof Ida, for the child resembled boththe god and goddess, and his name was theirs.The years passed by, and when the boy had reachedthe limit of three lustrums, he forsookhis native mountains; for he loved to roamthrough unimagined places, by the banksof undiscovered rivers; and the joyof finding wonders made his labour light.Leaving Mount Ida, where his youth was spent,he reached the land of Lycia, and from thencethe verge of Caria, where a pretty poolof soft translucent water may be seen,so clear the glistening bottom glads the eye:no barren sedge, no fenny reeds annoy,no rushes with their sharpened arrow-points,but all around the edges of that poolthe softest grass engirdles with its green.A Nymph dwells there, unsuited to the chase,unskilled to bend the bow, slothful of foot,the only Naiad in the world unknownto rapid-running Dian. Whensoeverher Naiad sisters pled in winged words,“Take up the javelin, sister Salmacis,take up the painted quiver and uniteyour leisure with the action of the chase;”she only scorned the javelin and the quiver,nor joined her leisure to the active chase.Rather she bathes her smooth and shapely limbs;or combs her tresses with a boxwood comb,Citorian; or looking in the poolconsults the glassed waters of effectsincreasing beauty; or she decks herselfin gauzy raiment, and reposing lollson cushioned leaves, or grass-enverdured beds;or gathers posies from the spangled lawns.Now, haply as she culled the sweetest flowersshe saw the youth, and longing in her heartmade havoc as her greedy eyes beheld.Although her love could scarcely brook delay,she waited to enhance her loveliness,in beauty hoping to allure his love.All richly dight she scanned herself and robes,to know that every charm should fair appear,and she be worthy: wherefore she began:“O godlike youth! if thou art of the skies,thou art no other than the god of Love;if mortal, blest are they who gave thee birth;happy thy brother; happy, fortunatethy sister; happy, fortunate and blestthe nurse that gave her bosom; but the joyssurpassing all, dearest and tenderest,are hers whom thou shalt wed. So, let it beif thou so young have deigned to marry, letmy joys be stolen; if unmarried, joinwith me in wedlock.” So she spoke, and stoodin silence waiting for the youth's reply.He knows nor cares for love—with lovelinessthe mounting blushes tinge his youthful cheeks,as blush-red tint of apples on the tree,ripe in the summer sun, or as the hueof painted ivory, or the round moonred-blushing in her splendour, when the clashof brass resounds in vain. And long the Nymphimplored; almost clung on his neck, as smoothand white as ivory; unceasinglyimploring him to kiss her, though as chasteas kisses to a sister; but the youthoutwearied, thus:“I do beseech you makean end of this; or must I fly the placeand leave you to your tears?” Affrighted thensaid Salmacis, “To you I freely give—good stranger here remain.” Although she madefair presence to retire, she hid herself,that from a shrub-grown covert, on her kneesshe might observe unseen.As any boythat heedless deems his mischief unobserved,now here now there, he rambled on the green;now in the bubbly ripples dipped his feet,now dallied in the clear pool ankle-deep;—the warm-cool feeling of the liquid then,so pleased him, that without delay he doffedhis fleecy garments from his tender limbs.Ah, Salmacis, amazement is thy meed!Thou art consumed to know his naked grace!As the hot glitters of the round bright suncollected, sparkle from the polished plate,thine eyes are glistened with delirious fires.Delay she cannot; panting for his joy,languid for his caressing, crazed, distract,her passion difficult is held in check.—He claps his body with his hollow palmsand lightly vaults into the limped wave,and darting through the water hand over handshines in the liquid element, as thoughshould one enhance a statue's ivorine,or glaze the lily in a lake of glass.And thus the Naiad, “I have gained my suit;his love is mine,—is mine!” Quickly disrobed,she plunged into the yielding wave—seized him,caressed him, clung to him a thousand ways,kissed him, thrust down her hands and touched his breast:reluctant and resisting he endeavoursto make escape, but even as he strugglesshe winds herself about him, as entwinesthe serpent which the royal bird on highholds in his talons; —as it hangs, it coilsin sinuous folds around the eagle's feet;—twisting its coils around his head and wings:or as the ivy clings to sturdy oaks;or as the polypus beneath the waves,by pulling down, with suckers on all sides,tenacious holds its prey. And yet the youth,descendant of great Atlas, not relentsnor gives the Naiad joy. Pressing her suitshe winds her limbs around him and exclaims,“You shall not scape me, struggle as you will,perverse and obstinate! Hear me, ye Gods!Let never time release the youth from me;time never let me from the youth release!”

Propitious deities accord her prayers:the mingled bodies of the pair uniteand fashion in a single human form.So one might see two branches underneatha single rind uniting grow as one:so, these two bodies in a firm embraceno more are twain, but with a two-fold formnor man nor woman may be called—Though bothin seeming they are neither one of twain.When that Hermaphroditus felt the change,so wrought upon him by the languid fount,considered that he entered it a man,and now his limbs relaxing in the streamhe is not wholly male, but only half,—he lifted up his hands and thus implored,albeit with no manly voice; “Hear meO father! hear me mother! grant to methis boon; to me whose name is yours, your son;whoso shall enter in this fount a manmust leave its waters only half a man.”Moved by the words of their bi-natured sonboth parents yield assent: they taint the fountwith essences of dual-working powers.Now though the daughters of King Minyashave made an end of telling tales, they makeno end of labour; for they so despisethe deity, and desecrate his feast.While busily engaged, with sudden beatthey hear resounding tambourines; and pipesand crooked horns and tinkling brass renew,unseen, the note; saffron and myrrh dissolvein dulcet odours; and, beyond belief,the woven webs, dependent on the loom,take tints of green, put forth new ivy leaves,or change to grape-vines verdant. There the threadis twisted into tendrils, there the warpis fashioned into many-moving leaves—the purple lends its splendour to the grape.And now the day is past; it is the hourwhen night ambiguous merges into day,which dubious owns nor light nor dun obscure;and suddenly the house begins to shake,and torches oil-dipped seem to flare around,and fires a-glow to shine in every room,and phantoms, feigned of savage beasts, to howl.—Full of affright amid the smoking hallsthe sisters vainly hide, and wheresoeverthey deem security from flaming fires,fearfully flit. And while they seek to hide,a membrane stretches over every limb,and light wings open from their slender arms.In the weird darkness they are unawarewhat measure wrought to change their wonted shape.No plumous vans avail to lift their flight,yet fair they balance on membraneous wing.Whenever they would speak a tiny voice,diminutive, apportioned to their size,in squeaking note complains. Adread the light,their haunts avoid by day the leafy woods,for sombre attics, where secure they resttill forth the dun obscure their wings may stretchat hour of Vesper;—this accords their name.

Throughout the land of Thebes miraculousthe power of Bacchus waxed; and far and wideIno, his aunt, reported the great deedsby this divinity performed. Of allher sisters only she escaped unharmed,when Fate destroyed them, and she knew not grief—only for sorrow of her sisters' woes.—While Ino vaunted of her mother-joys,and of her kingly husband, Athamas,and of the mighty God, her foster-child;Juno, disdaining her in secret, said;“How shall the offspring of a concubinetransform Maeonian mariners, overwhelmthem in the ocean, sacrifice a sonto his deluded mother, who insane,tears out his entrails; how shall he inventwings for three daughters of King Minyas,while Juno unavenged, bewails despite?—Is it the end? the utmost of my power?His deeds instruct the way; true wisdom heedsan enemy's device; by the strange deathof Pentheus, all that madness could performwas well revealed to all; what then deniesa frenzy may unravel Ino's courseto such a fate as wrought her sisters' woe?”A shelving path in shadows of sad yewthrough utter silence to the deep descends,infernal, where the languid Styx exhalesvapours; and there the shadows of the dead,descend, after they leave their sacred urns,and ghostly forms invade: and far and wide,those dreary regions Horror and bleak Coldobtain.The ghosts, arrived, not know the way,—which leadeth to the Stygian city-gates,—not know the melancholy palace wherethe swarthy Pluto stays, though streets and waysa thousand to that city lead, and gatesout-swing from every side: and as the seawith never-seen increase engulfs the streamsunnumbered of the world, that realm enfoldsthe souls of men, nor ever is it filled.Around the shadowy spirits go; bloodlessboneless and bodiless; they throng the placeof judgment, or they haunt the mansion whereabides the Utmost Tyrant, or they tendto various callings, as their whilom way; —appropriate punishment confines to painthe multitude condemned.To this abode,impelled by rage and hate, from habitationcelestial, Juno, of Saturn born, descends,submissive to its dreadful element.No sooner had she entered the sad gates,than groans were uttered by the threshold, pressedby her immortal form, and Cerberusupraising his three-visaged mouths gave ventto triple-barking howls.—She called to herthe sisters, Night-begot, implacable,terrific Furies. They did sit beforethe prison portals, adamant confined,combing black vipers from their horrid hair.When her amid the night-surrounding shadesthey recognized, those Deities uprose.O dread confines! dark seat of wretched vice!Where stretched athwart nine acres, Tityus,must thou endure thine entrails to be torn!O Tantalus, thou canst not touch the wave,and from thy clutch the hanging branches rise!O Sisyphus, thou canst not stay the stone,catching or pushing, it must fall again!O thou Ixion! whirled around, around,thyself must follow to escape thyself!And, O Belides, (plotter of sad deathupon thy cousins) thou art always doomedto dip forever ever-spilling waves!When that the daughter of Saturnus fixeda stern look on those wretches, first her glancearrested on Ixion; but the nexton Sisyphus; and thus the goddess spoke;—“For why should he alone of all his kinsuffer eternal doom, while Athamas,luxurious in a sumptuous palace reigns;and, haughty with his wife, despises me.”So grieved she, and expressed the rage of hatethat such descent inspired, beseeching thus,no longer should the House of Cadmus stand,so that the sister Furies plunge in crimeoverweening Athamas.—Entreating them,she mingled promises with her commands.—When Juno ended speech, Tisiphone,whose locks entangled are not ever smooth,tossed them around, that backward from her facesuch crawling snakes were thrown;—then answered she:“Since what thy will decrees may well be done,why need we to consult with many words?Leave thou this hateful region and conveythyself, contented, to a better realm.”Rejoicing Juno hastens to the clouds—before she enters her celestial home,Iris, the child of Thaumas, purifiesher limbs in sprinkled water.