So Hymen left there, clad in saffron robe,
Through the great reach of air, and took his way
To the Ciconian country, where the voice
Of Orpheus called him, all in vain. He came there,
True, but brought with him no auspicious words,
No joyful faces, lucky omens. The torch
Sputtered and filled the eyes with smoke; when swung,
It would not blaze: bad as the omens were,
The end was worse, for as the bride went walking
Across the lawn, attended by her naiads,
A serpent bit her ankle, and she was gone.
Orpheus mourned her to the upper world,
And then, lest he should leave the shades untried,
Dared to descend to Styx, passing the portal
Men call Taenarian. Through the phantom dwellers,
The buried ghosts, he passed, came to the king
Of that sad realm, and to Persephone,
His consort, and he swept the strings, and chanted:
"Gods of the world below the world, to whom
All of us mortals come, if I may speak
Without deceit, the simple truth is this:
I came here, not to see dark Tartarus,
[page 235]
Nor yet to bind the triple-throated monster
Medusas offspring, rough with snakes. I came
For my wife's sake, whose growing years were taken
By a snake's venom. I wanted to be able
To bear this; I have tried to. Love has conquered.
This god is famous in the world above,
But here, I do not know. I think he may be
Or is it all a lie, that ancient story
Of an old ravishment, and how he brought
The two of you together? By these places
All full of fear, by this immense confusion,
By this vast kingdom's silences, I beg you,
Weave over Eurydice's life, run through too soon.
To you we all, people and things, belong,
Sooner or later, to this single dwelling
All of us come, to our last home; you hold
Longest dominion over humankind.
She will come back again, to be your subject,
After the ripeness of her years; I am asking
A loan and not a gift. If fate denies us
This privilege for my wife, one thing is certain:
I do not want to go back either; triumph
In the death of two."
And with his words, the music
Made the pale phantoms weep: Ixion's wheel
Was still, Tityos' vultures left the liver,
Tantalus tried no more to reach for the water,
And Belus' daughters rested from their urns,
And Sisyphus climbed on his rock to listen.
That was the first time ever in all the world
The Furies wept. Neither the king nor consort
Had harshness to refuse him, and they called her,
Eurydice. She was there, limping a little
>From her late wound, with the new shades of Hell.
And Orpheus received her, but one term
Was set: he must not, till he passed Avernus,
[page 236]
Turn back his gaze, or the gift would be in vain.
They climbed the upward path, through absolute silence,
Up the steep murk, clouded in pitchy darkness,
They were near the margin, near the upper land,
When he, afraid that she might falter, eager to see her,
Looked back in love, and she was gone, in a moment.
Was it he, or she, reaching out arms and trying
To hold or to be held, and clasping nothing
But empty air? Dying the second time,
She had no reproach to bring against her husband,
What was there to complain of? One thing, only:
He loved her. He could hardly hear her calling
Farewell! when she was gone.
The double death
Stunned Orpheus, like the man who turned to stone
At sight of Cerberus, or the couple of rock,
Olenos and Lethaea, hearts so joined
One shared the other's guilt, and Ida's mountain,
Where rivers run, still holds them, both together.
In vain the prayers of Orpheus and his longing
To cross the river once more; the boatman Charon
Drove him away. For seven days he sat there
Beside the bank, in filthy garments, and tasting
No food whatever. Trouble, grief, and tears
Were all his sustenance. At last, complaining
The gods of Hell were cruel, he wandered on
To Rhodope and Haemus, swept by the north winds,
Where, for three years, he lived without a woman
Either because marriage had meant misfortune
Or he had made a promise. But many women
Wanted this poet for their own, and many
Grieved over their rejection. His love was given
To young boys only, and he told the Thracians
That was the better way: enjoy that springtime,
Take those first flowers!
[page 237]
There was a hill, and on it
A wide-extending plain, all green, but lacking
The darker green of shade, and when the singer
Came there and ran his fingers over the strings,
The shade came there to listen. The oak-tree came,
And many poplars, and the gentle lindens,
The beech, the virgin laurel, and the hazel
Easily broken, the ash men use for spears
The shining silver-fir, the ilex bending
Under its acorns, the friendly sycamore,
The changing-colored maple, and the willows
That love the river-waters, and the lotus
Favoring pools, and the green boxwood came,
Slim tamarisks, and myrtle, and viburnum
With dark-blue berries, and the pliant ivy,
The tendrilled grape, the elms, all dressed with vines,
The rowan-trees, the pitch-pines, and the arbute
With the red fruit, the palm, the victor's triumph,
The bare-trunked pine with spreading leafy crest,
Dear to the mother of the gods since Attis
Put off his human form, took on that likeness,
And the cone-shaped cypress joined them, now a tree,
But once a boy, loved by the god Apollo
Master of lyre and bow-string, both together.
There was a deer, whom the Carthean nymphs
Held sacred, a great stag, whose spreading antlers
Were his own shade-tree. Golden shone those horns,
And round his glossy neck a string of jewels
Fell to his shoulders, and a silver bubble,
Fastened with little straps, gleamed on his forehead,
With earrings, made of bronze, at either temple.
He had no fear at all, would enter houses,
Let even unfamiliar people pet him,
But most of all he was fond of Cyparissus,
[page 238]
The handsomest youth in Cea. Cyparissus
Would lead the animal to the green pastures,
Beside the running brooks, wreathe garlands for him
Of many-colored flowers, or ride him, bareback,
Guiding him gently with the crimson bridle.
One summer noon-day, when the heat of the sun
Held hot around the seashore, the deer was Iying,
Tired, with his body on the grassy ground,
Under a tree's cool shadow, and Cyparissus
Shot him, by some ill luck, with pointed arrow,
And as he saw him dying from the wound,
Wanted to die himself. Apollo offered
Such consolation as he could, advised him
To keep his grief within some proper limit,
But he kept grieving still, and prayed the gods,
As a last boon, to let him grieve forever.
And his blood grew thin from that incessant weeping,
His limbs were green in color, and the hair
Over his snowy forehead, bristled, roughened
Like any bush, rose, tapering, toward Heaven.
Apollo spoke in sorrow: "I shall mourn you,
As you shall mourn for others, an attendant
On all who mourn their dead." And still he cypress
Remains a tree of mourning.
Such was the grove
Orpheus had drawn to hear him, and the beasts
And birds made a circle all around him.
He tried the chords with his thumb, and found the tones
Different but harmonious, and began:
"From Jove, O Muse, my mother, for all things come
>From Jove, inspire my song! I have often sung
His power before, his wars against the giants,
His thunderbolts, but now the occasion seeks
A gentler lyre, for I would sing of boys
Loved by the gods, and girls inflamed by love
To things forbidden, and earned punishment.
[page 239]
The king of the gods once loved a Trojan boy
Named Ganymede; for once, there was something found
That Jove would rather have been than what he was.
He made himself an eagle, the only bird
Able to bear his thunderbolts, went flying
On his false wings, and carried off the youngster
Who now, though much against the will of Juno,
Tends to the cups of Jove and serves his nectar.
There was another boy, who might have had
A place in Heaven, at Apollo's order,
Had Fate seen fit to give him time, and still
He is, in his own fashion, an immortal.
Whenever spring drives winter out, and the Ram
Succeeds the wintry Fish, he springs to blossom
On the green turf. My father loved him dearly,
This Hyacinthus, and left Delphi for him,
Outward from the world's center, on to Sparta,
The town that has no walls, and Eurotas River.
Quiver and lyre were nothing to him there,
No more than his own dignity; he carried
The nets for fellows hunting, and held the dogs
leash for them, and with them roamed the trails
Of the rough mountain ridges. In their train
He fed the fire with long association.
It was noon one day: Apollo, Hyacinthus,
Stripped, rubbed themselves with oil, and tried their skill
At discus-throwing. Apollo sent the missile
Far through the air, so far it pierced the clouds,
A long time coming down, and when it fell
Proved both his strength and skill, and Hyacinthus,
All eager for his turn, heedless of danger,
[page 240]
Went running to pick it up, before it settled
Fully to earth. It bounded once and struck him
Full in the face, and he grew deadly pale
As the pale god caught up the huddled body,
Trying to warm the dreadful chill that held it,
Trying to staunch the wound, to keep the spirit
With healing herbs, but all the arts were useless,
The wound was past all cure. So, in a garden,
If one breaks off a violet or poppy
Or lilies, bristling with their yellow stamens,
And they droop over, and cannot raise their heads,
But look on earth, so sank the dying features,
The neck, its strength all gone, lolled on the shoulder.
'Fallen before your time, O Hyacinthus,'
Apollo cried, 'I see your wound, my crime:
You are my sorrow, my reproach; my hand
Has been your murderer. But how am I
To blame? Where is my guilt, except in playing
With you, in loving you? I cannot die
For you, or with you either; the law of Fate
Keeps us apart: it shall not! You will be
With me forever, and my songs and music
Will tell of you, and you will be reborn
As a new flower whose markings will spell out
My cries of grief, and there will come a time
When a great hero's name will be the same
As this flower's markings.' So Apollo spoke,
And it was truth he told, for on the ground
The blood was blood no longer; in its place
A flower grew, brighter than any crimson,
Like lilies with their silver changed to crimson.
That was not all; Apollo kept the promise
About the markings, and inscribed the flower
With his own grieving words: Ai, Ai
The petals say, Greek for Alas! In Sparta,
Even to this day, they hold their son in honor,
[page 241]
And when the day comes round, they celebrate
The rites for Hyacinthus, as did their fathers.
Amathus, a town of Cyprus, is rich in metals,
But never ask that town about her daughters,
Whose foreheads once bore horns, or the other ones,
Turned, later, into stone. The former had
An altar at their gates, sacred to Jove,
The god of host and guest: if any stranger
Had seen it, stained with blood, he would suppose
That sheep or calves were slain there, and how wrong
He would have been! That blood came from the murder,
Always, of innocent guests. Venus, offended,
Prepared to leave her Cyprian plains and cities,
And then reflected: 'But these lovely regions
Are not at fault, the cities are not guilty.
Let these Horned Girls, these wicked creatures, rather
Pay for their sins by exile or by death
Or by some punishment halfway between,
Let us say, a change of body.' As she wondered
What change, her eyes fell on the horns they carried:
Those they might keep. They were big women by nature,
Let them be bulls!
And even so, the others,
The foul Propoetides, would not acknowledge
Venus and her divinity, and her anger
Made whores of them, the first such women ever
To sell their bodies, and in shamelessness
They hardened, even their blood was hard, they could not
Blush any more; it was no transition, really,
>From what they were to actual rock and stone.
One man, Pygmalion, who had seen these women
Leading their shameful lives, shocked at the vices
[page 242]
Nature has given the female disposition
Only too often, chose to live alone,
To have no woman in his bed. But meanwhile
He made, with marvelous art, an ivory statue,
As white as snow, and gave it greater beauty
Than any girl could have, and fell in love
With his own workmanship. The image seemed
That of a virgin, truly, almost living,
And willing, save that modesty prevented,
To take on movement. The best art, they say,
Is that which conceals art, and so Pygmalion
Marvels, and loves the body he has fashioned.
He would often move his hands to test and touch it,
Could this be flesh, or was it ivory only?
No, it could not be ivory. His kisses,
He fancies, she returns; he speaks to her,
Holds her, believes his fingers almost leave
An imprint on her limbs, and fears to bruise her.
He pays her compliments, and brings her presents
Such as girls love, smooth pebbles, winding shells,
Little pet birds, flowers with a thousand colors,
Lilies, and painted balls, and lumps of amber.
He decks her limbs with dresses, and her fingers
Wear rings which he puts on, and he brings a necklace,
And earrings, and a ribbon for her bosom,
And all of these become her, but she seems
Even more lovely naked, and he spreads
A crimson coverlet for her to lie on,
Takes her to bed, puts a soft pillow under
Her head, as if she felt it, calls her Darling,
My darling love!
"And Venus' holiday
Came round, and all the people of the island
Were holding festival, and snow-white heifers,
Their horns all tipped with gold, stood at the altars,
Where incense burned, and, timidly, Pygmalion
[page 243]
Made offering, and prayed: 'If you can give
All things, O gods, I pray my wife may be
--(He almost said, My ivory girl, but dared not)
--One like my ivory girl.' And golden Venus
Was there, and understood the prayer's intention,
And showed her presence, with the bright flame leaping
Thrice on the altar, and Pygmalion came
Back where the maiden lay, and lay beside her,
And kissed her, and she seemed to glow, and kissed her,
And stroked her breast, and felt the ivory soften
Under his fingers, as wax grows soft in sunshine,
Made pliable by handling. And Pygmalion
Wonders, and doubts, is dubious and happy,
Plays lover again, and over and over touches
The body with his hand. It is a body!
The veins throb under the thumb. And oh, Pygmalion
Is lavish in his prayer and praise to Venus,
No words are good enough. The lips he kisses
Are real indeed, the ivory girl can feel them,
And blushes and responds, and the eyes open
At once on lover and heaven, and Venus blesses
The marriage she has made. The crescent moon
Fills to full orb, nine times, and wanes again,
And then a daughter is born, a girl named Paphos,
>From whom the island later takes its name.
Her son was Cinyras; had he been childless,
He might have been a happier man. The story
Is terrible, I warn you. Fathers, daughters,
Had better skip this part, or, if you like my songs,
Distrust me here, and say it never happened,
Or, if you do believe it, take my word
That it was paid for. Nature, it may be,
Permits such things to happen. I would offer
Our land congratulations, that it lies
[page 244]
So far away from such abominations.
Panchaia, rich in cinnamon and balsam,
In frankincense and costmary, in flowers
Of every kind, has one more tree, remember,
Perhaps not worth its price, the myrrh. Now Myrrha,
Cinyras' daughter, Cupid claimed, had never
Been hurt by darts of his, nor had his torches
Kindled her fire; that was the work of the Furies,
Or one of them, with Stygian snake and firebrand.
Hating a father is a crime, but surely
Loving like this a greater crime than hatred.
Myrrha had many suitors: all the East
Had sent its ardent princes, eager rivals
For Myrrha's bed: make a selection, Myrrha,
Choose one of them, they are many, rule out only
One man of all the world!
"Myrrha herself
Knew her own wickedness, and fought against it:
'What kind of thing is this that I am planning?
O gods, I pray you, keep me decent, keep me
Devoted, as I should be, to my parents,
Respectful of their rights! Keep off this sin,
This crime--or is it crime? Devotion cannot
Condemn such love as crime; the beasts, I notice,
Mate as they will, and no one calls a heifer
Disgraced to have her father on her back,
And no one thinks a filly should not welcome
Her sire as stallion; the ram goes in to ewes
He has begotten, and the birds are treaded
By cocks whose treading gave them life. How happy
They are, to be so free! But human culture
Has made malignant laws, laws against nature,
Envious, jealous laws. Yet there are people,
They say, where mothers wed their sons, and daughters
Sleep with their fathers, so that natural love
Is doubled. No such luck is mine; I might have
[page 245]
Been native to such countries; here I am,
Frustrated by geography! Why do I
Keep thinking of such matters? Foolish fancies!
Leave me alone! He is worthy to be loved,
Loved as a father- Were I not his daughter,
I might have slept with Cinyras. He is mine
One way, not mine another; his very closeness
Keeps him far off. If I were foreign-born,
My power would be greater; I had better
Go from my home, my country, shun this passion,
This crime, that keeps me here, that keeps me watching
My Cinyras, touching him, and talking with him,
And kissing him, if nothing else is granted.
What else is there to look for? Virgin, wanton,
All names, all titles, vanish in confusion:
A mother's rival, and a father's mistress,
Sister of sons, and mother of your brothers!
Have you no fear of the sisters, the grim Furies
With the black snakes for hair, whose cruel torches
Threaten the eyes and faces of the guilty?
You have, so far, not sinned in body, Myrrha:
Try not to sin in mind; do not imagine
Embrace a natural law forbids. You want it,
I know, but fact forbids, and he is righteous,
Heedful of moral sanctions--and I wish
He had my kind of passion burning in him!'
All this she told herself, and Cinyras
Did not know what to do, so many suitors,
All worthy men, awaiting her decision.
He named them over to her, asked her questions,
Which one of them she would most prefer as husband.
She made no answer, only stared, and seemed
Confused in mind, and wept, and Cinyras
Thought this was natural for a girl, and, kindly,
Bade her not weep, and dried her cheeks, and kissed her
That made her happy. So-- what kind of husband?
[page 246]
'A man like you,' she said. He praised her answer
Not knowing what it really meant. 'Be such
A good girl always, dear!' he told her,
And Myrrha, like a good girl, kept her eyes
Downcast, too conscious of her guilt in goodness.
And midnight came, with sleep to heal men's troubles,
To ease their bodies. Myrrha could not sleep,
Tossed all night long, unsatisfied, renewing
Her passionate wants, despaired, gave up, again
Wanted to try, knew shame, and knew desire,
Found no way out. As a great tree, deep wounded
By axe-blows, with the final stroke not given,
Wavers which way to fall, and every side
May be its dangerous earthward rush, so Myrrha,
Weakened by various wounds, uncertain, faltering,
Leaned one way, then another, torn with conflict.
A love like hers, with neither rest nor limit,
Had no way out but death: death would be pleasant.
She rose, she swung a noose from the high rafter,
Crying, 'Farewell, dear Cinyras; understand
The reason for my death,' ghastly pale,
Fitting the noose around her neck.
"Some stir
Of action, or the murmur of her words,
Reached the old nurse who watched outside her doorway,
And she came flying, swung the door wide open,
Saw the grim preparations, screamed, and tore
Her garments, beat her breasts, and in a moment
Snatched loose the rope, and then found time for weeping,
For holding Myrrha in her arms, for asking
All kinds of questions. But Myrrha would not answer,
Would not look up, sullen, and grieving only
For her own slowness, and the nurse insisted,
Making a show of her gray hair, her skinny
Old useless breasts, begging her, by her cradle,
[page 247]
Her baby milk, to tell her all her trouble.
She turned away and groaned, but the old nurse
Was bound to find out more, and promised more
Than passive listening. 'Tell me, let me help you;
Old as I am, I have some wit. Is it madness?
I have a way to cure it by charms and simples.
Has some one put an evil spell upon you?
We can work it off with magic. Are the gods
Angry at you? Let sacrifice appease them!
What other reasons could there be? The fortunes
Of all your house go well; father and mother
Prosper in health.' Hearing the name of father,
Myrrha gave one long sigh, no clue to the nurse
Of the evil in her heart, but she suspected
Some love affair, and with persistent purpose
Kept up her questions, holding Myrrha close
With her old arms to her old breast. 'I know,'
She said, 'you are in love, and in this business,
Don't worry, I can more than help, and no one,
Not even your father, will ever know.' But Myrrha
Tore herself loose, and flung herself, face down,
Crying into her pillow. 'Go away,
Spare my unhappy shame!' But the nurse only
Urged and insisted. 'Go away, or stop it!
Stop asking why I grieve. It is a crime,
The thing you are trying to learn, a crime, I tell you!'
The poor old woman, horrified, held out
Her arms, all trembling with the weight of years,
The load of fear, and fell at her feet, imploring,
Coaxing and wheedling, sometimes even trying
To scare her into telling, making threats
To tell about the noose, about the try
At suicide, and giving reassurance
Of all her help, if only she can know
Who the man is. And Myrrha raised her head
To weep on the nurse's bosom, trying, often,
[page 248]
To get the truth out, failing, hiding her face
In the robes again, finally saying only:
'O mother, mother, happy in your husband!'
That was enough, and a cold horror crept
Through the old woman's limbs. She knew. She tried,
As best she could, to banish, if she might,
So mad a passion; Myrrha knew the warning
Was given in all truthfulness, but could not
Resign herself to living without having
The one she loved. 'Live, then,' the other told her,
'You will have your--' (but she could not say it) father.
The time arrived when all the married women
Held festival for Ceres. Robed in white,
They brought the first-fruits, wheaten ears as garlands,
And for nine nights to love a man or touch him
Was a forbidden thing. And the king's wife,
Queen Cenchreis, was one of them, most faithful
In those mysterious rites, and the king's bed
Was empty, and the nurse, losing no time,
Found him, a little drunk, and filled his ears
With a story of a girl who loved him truly,
Named--she made up a name, and praised her beauty.
Cinyras asked one question: how old was she?
'Just Myrrha's age. Go get her!' So she went
Back home to Myrrha, crying out, 'My child,
Rejoice, we conquer!' In the heart of Myrrha
There was not all rejoicing, for her mind
Was filled with sad foreboding, but I could not
Say there was no rejoicing and be truthful.
It was the time when all things rest; in Heaven
The Driver of the Oxen turned his team
To their downward course, the golden moon was gone,
The stars were in black cloud, and the night smouldered
[page 249]
Without the usual fires, as Myrrha came
On to her guilty deed. Three times she stumbled
At the edge of the threshold, and three times the owl
Wailed out his cry to warn her, but she came on,
Her shame diminished in the night's dark shadow.
Her left hand holds her nurse's hand, the other
Gropes through the dark ahead, she comes to the door,
Opens the door, goes in, and her knees tremble
Her face is pale and bloodless, and her spirit
Deserts her as she goes. Closer and closer
She nears her crime, and more and more she shudders,
Repents her boldness, wishes she might now
Turn back unknown, but the old woman leads her
Along, unwilling, to where the bedside towers,
Where Cinyras waits. 'Take her, she is your own,'
She says and is gone, leaving the two together,
Doomed and devoted. On the bed of incest
The father takes his daughter; words are spoken
To ease her virgin fears, to make her trembling
A little less. He might have called her Daughter,
Knowing how young she was; she might have answered
Dear father, So the names were right and proper
To suit the guilty deed.
"Filled with her father
She left the chamber, carrying in her womb
The seed of crime conceived, and she came back
The next night, and the next, till Cinyras,
After so many nights together, eager
To see the girl who loved him, called for lights
And so discovered his love, his crime, his daughter.
He could not speak, but drew the shining sword
Out of the sheath, and Myrrha fled, and darkness
And the blind night's favor kept death off. She wandered
Through the wide fields, beyond Arabian palm-trees,
Beyond Panchaia, till, with nine months gone,
In utter weariness she came to rest
[page 250]
In the Sabaean land. Heavy of womb,
Not knowing what to pray for, torn between
Sickness of life and fear of death, she summoned
Her desperation in words of prayer: 'O gods,
If any gods will listen, I deserve
Punishment surely, I do not refuse it,
But lest, in living, I offend the living,
Offend the dead in death, drive me away
>From either realm, change me somehow, refuse me
Both life and death!' There was a god to listen;
Her last petition had its gods to answer,
For even as she spoke, the earth closed over
Her legs, and slanting down between her toes
A root took hold, supporting the tall trunk,
The bones were stronger, and their central marrow
Suffered no change, but the blood was lymph or water,
Or watery sap, and the arms became long branches,
The fingers twigs, the skin rough bark. The tree
Had bound the pregnant belly, held in tight
The swelling breasts, was on its way to cover
Shoulders and neck, and she could not bear the waiting,
Bent her face down to meet it, plunged her features
Into the bark, until her human senses
Had vanished with her human form, but still
She weeps, and the warm tear-drops trickle down,
Not without honor, for that distillation
Still keeps her name; men call it myrrh, no age
Will ever forget the word.
"Within the wood
The child, conceived in guilt, had grown toward life,
Sought its way out; the swollen bole dilated
Under the strain of the weight, and with no voice
To call Lucina: like a woman in labor
The tree, contorted, cried and wept; the goddess
Stood near in pity, reached out helping hands,
Sang charms to aid the birth, and the tree cracked open,
[page 251]
The bark was split, the burden loosed, a baby
Gave his first cries, and naiads cradled him
On the soft leaves, and used his mother's tears
To wash him. Even Envy praised his beauty,
He looked so much like Cupid in a painting
All you would need to make them come out even
Would be to give a quiver to both, or neither.
Time, in its stealthy gliding, cheats us all
Without our notice; nothing goes more swiftly
Than do the years. That little boy, whose sister
Became his mother, his grandfather's son,
Is now a youth, and now a man, more handsome
Than he had ever been, exciting even
The goddess Venus, and thereby avenging
His mother's passion. Cupid, it seems, was playing,
Quiver on shoulder, when he kissed his mother,
And one barb grazed her breast; she pushed him away,
But the wound was deeper than she knew; deceived,
Charmed by Adonis' beauty, she cared no more
For Cythera's shores nor Paphos' sea-ringed island,
Nor Cnidos, where fish teem, nor high Amathus,
Rich in its precious ores. She stays away
Even from Heaven, Adonis is better than Heaven.
She is beside him always; she has always,
Before this time, preferred the shadowy places,
Preferred her ease, preferred to improve her beauty
By careful tending, but now, across the ridges,
Through woods, through rocky places thick with brambles,
She goes, more like Diana than like Venus,
Bare-kneed and robes tucked up. She cheers the hounds,
Hunts animals, at least such timid creatures
As deer and rabbits; no wild boars for her,
No wolves, no bears, no lions. And she warns him
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To fear them too, as if there might be good
In giving him warnings. 'Be bold against the timid,
The running creatures, but against the bold ones
Boldness is dangerous. Do not be reckless.
I share whatever risk you take; be careful!
Do not attack those animals which Nature
Has given weapons, lest your thirst for glory
May cost me dear. Beauty and youth and love
Make no impression on bristling boars and lions,
On animal eyes and minds. The force of lightning
Is in the wild boar's tusks, and tawny lions
Are worse than thunderbolts. I hate and fear them.'
He asks her why. She answers, 'I will tell you,
And you will wonder at the way old crime
Leads to monstrosities. I will tell you sometime,
Not now, for I am weary, all this hunting
Is not what I am used to. Here's a couch
Of grassy turf, and a canopy of poplar,
I would like to lie there with you.' And she lay there,
Making a pillow for him of her breast,
And kisses for her story's punctuation.
You may have heard (she said) about a girl
Who could outrun the swiftest men. The story
Is very true: she really could outrun them.
It would be hard to say, though, whether her speed
Or beauty earned more praise. She was very lovely.
She asked the oracle, one day, to give her
Advice on marriage. "You don't need a husband,"
The god replied, "Avoid that habit! Still,
I know you will not: you will keep your life,
And lose yourself." So Atalanta, frightened,
Lived in the shadowy woods, a single woman,
Harshly rejecting urgent throngs of suitors.
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"No one gets me who cannot beat me running,
Race me!" she told them, "Wife and marriage-chamber
Go to the winner, but the slow ones get
The booby-prize of death. Those are my terms."
The terms were harsh, but beauty has such power
That those harsh terms were met by many suitors,
Foolhardy fellows. Watching the cruel race,
Hippomenes had some remarks to make:
"Is any woman worth it? These young men
Strike me as very silly." But when he saw her,
Her face, her body naked, with such beauty
As mine is, or as yours would be, Adonis,
If you were woman, he was struck with wonder,
Threw up his hands and cried: "I beg your pardon,
Young men, I judged you wrongly; I did not know
The value of the prize!" And he caught fire
>From his own praising, hoped that no young runner
Would beat her, feared they might, was worried, jealous.
"Why don't I try?" he thought, "God helps the bold."
And, swifter than his thought, the girl sped by
On winged feet, swifter than Scythian arrow,
Yet not too swift for a young man's admiration,
And running made her lovelier: the breeze
Bore back the streaming pinions of her sandals,
Her hair was tossed back over ivory shoulders,
The colored ribbons fluttered at her knees,
And a light flush came over her girlish body
The way a crimson awning, over marble,
Tints it in pastel color. As he watched her,
She crossed the finish line, received the crown
Of victory, and the beaten suitors, groaning,
Were led away to death.
'Hippomenes,
Undaunted, came from the crowd; he fixed his eyes
On Atalanta, and he made his challenge:
"This is too easy, beating all these turtles!
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Race against me!" he said, "If you are beaten
It will be no disgrace. Megareus is my father,
Whose grandfather was Neptune, and that makes me
Great-grandson of the king of all the oceans.
Nor is my worth inferior to my race.
Beat me, and you will have something to boast of!"
Listening, looking almost tenderly
At that young man, she wondered, in confusion,
Which would be better, to win or lose. "What god"
She thought, "So hates the young and handsome
He wants to ruin this one, tempting him
To risk his precious life to marry me?
I do not think I am worth it. I am not moved
By his beauty (though I could be); I am moved
Because he seems so young: he does not move me,
Only his age. What of his manly courage,
His nerve, his claim to proud descent, his love
For me, so great a love that death, he claims,
Is an advantage if he cannot have me?
Go while you may, O stranger, flee this marriage,
There is too much blood upon it. Any girl
Would marry you, and wisely. Why do I care,
Why worry for him, when I have slain so many?
Let him look out for himself, or let him die
Since the death of all those others has not warned him,
Since life is such a bore! Is he to die
Because he wants to live with me? Is death
To be the price of love? I shall be hated
In victory. It is not my fault. Poor fellow,
I wish you would forget it but, since you are crazy,
I wish at least you could run a little faster!
He looks like a girl, almost. I wish he had never
Laid eyes on me. He should have lived. If I
Were luckier, if the fates allowed me marriage,
He was the only one I would have taken
To bed with any pleasure." Atalanta
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Was green in love, untutored--she did not know
What she was doing, and loved, and did not know it.
Meanwhile the people and her father, restless,
Were clamoring for the race. Hippomenes
Called me in supplication: "O, may Venus
Be near, I pray, assist my daring, favor
The love she gave me!" And a gentle breeze
Bore this soft prayer my way; it moved my heart,
I own, and there was little time to aid him.
There is a field the natives call Tamasus,
The richest part of Cyprus, which the ancients
Hallowed for me, and built my temples there,
And in a field there stands a golden tree,
Shining with golden leaves and branches rustling
With the soft click of gold, and golden apples
Are the fruit of that golden tree. I came from there
With three such apples in my hand, and no one
Saw me except Hippomenes, and I
Told him how he should use them.
'The trumpets sounded
The start: the pair, each crouching low, shot forward,
Skimming the sand with flying feet, so lightly
They could run on waves and never wet their sandals,
They could run on fields of grain and never bend them.
He heard them cheering: "Go, Hippomenes,
Lean to the work, use all your strength: go, go,
You are sure to win!" I could not tell you whether
The cheering pleased him more, or Atalanta.
How many times, when she could have passed, she lingered,
Slowed down to see his face, and, most unwilling,
Sprinted ahead! And now his breathing labored,
Came in great sobbing gasps, and the finish line
Was a long way off, and he tossed one golden apple,
The first one, down. She looked at it with wonder,
Eager to have the shining fruit, she darted
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Out of the course, and picked it up, still rolling,
The golden thing. He gained the lead again
As all the people roared applause. She passed him
Again, and once again lost ground to follow
The toss of the second apple, and once more
Caught up and sprinted past him. "O be near me,
Gift-bringing Goddess, help me now!" he cried,
And this time threw the last third apple farther,
Angling it off the course, way to one side.
She hesitated, only for a moment,
Whether to chase it, but I made her do it,
And made the fruit weigh more, so she was hindered
Both by the burden and her own delay.
To run my story quickly, as the race
Was run, the girl was beaten, and the winner
Led off his prize.
Do you not think, Adonis,
He should have brought me incense, or at least
Given me thanks? He did not. I was angry:
Once slighted, I should not again be slighted.
I told myself I would make examples of them.
One day they were going by a temple, hidden
In the deep woods; in ancient times Echion
Had consecrated this to Cybele
In payment of a vow. Their trip was long,
And they were tired, or thought so, but I drove
Hippomenes half crazy with the passion
To take his wife. He saw, beside the temple,
A dimly-lighted cavern, roofed with rock,
A chapel it was, really, where the priesthood
Had placed for worship their old wooden idols.
He could not wait, here he took Atalanta,
And the gods turned their eyes away; Cybele,
The tower-crowned Mother, had at first the impulse
To drown them, for their guilt, in the Stygian waters,
But that seemed much too easy. So their necks
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Grew rough with tawny manes, their fingers, hooked,
Were claws, their arms were legs, their chests grew heavy,
Their tails swept over the sandy ground, and anger
Blazed in their features, they conversed in growling,
Took to the woods to couple: they were lions,
Frightful to all but Cybele, whose bridle
And bit they champed in meekness. Do not hunt them,
Adonis: let all beasts alone, which offer
Breasts to the fight, not backs, or else your daring
Will be the ruin of us both.'
"Her warning
Was given, and the goddess took her way,
Drawn by her swans through air. But the young hunter
Scorned all such warnings, and one day, it happened,
His hounds, hard on the trail, roused a wild boar,
And as he rushed from the wood, Adonis struck him
A glancing blow, and the boar turned, and shaking
The spear from the side, came charging at the hunter,
Who feared, and ran, and fell, and the tusk entered
Deep in the groin, and the youth lay there dying
On the yellow sand, and Venus, borne through air
In her light swan-guided chariot, still was far
>From Cyprus when she heard his groans, and, turning
The white swans from their course, came back to him,
Saw, from high air, the body Iying lifeless
In its own blood, and tore her hair and garments,
Beat her fair breasts with cruel hands, came down
Reproaching Fate. 'They shall not have it always
Their way,' she mourned, 'Adonis, for my sorrow,
Shall have a lasting monument: each year
Your death will be my sorrow, but your blood
Shall be a flower. If Persephone
Could change to fragrant mint the girl called Mentha,
Cinyras' son, my hero, surely also
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Can be my flower.' Over the blood she sprinkled
Sweet-smelling nectar, and as bubbles rise
In rainy weather, so it stirred, and blossomed,
Before an hour, as crimson in its color
As pomegranates are, as briefly clinging
To life as did Adonis, for the winds
Which gave a name to the flower, anemone,
The wind-flower, shake the petals off, too early,
Doomed all too swift and soon."