So with his singing Orpheus drew the trees,
The beasts, the stones, to follow, when, behold!
The mad Ciconian women, fleeces flung
Across their maddened breasts, caught sight of him
>From a near hill-top, as he joined his song
To the lyre's music. One of them, her tresses
Streaming in the light air, cried out: "Look there!
There is our despiser!"and she flung a spear
Straight at the singing mouth, but the leafy wand
Made only a mark and did no harm. Another
Let fly a stone, which, even as it flew,
Was conquered by the sweet harmonious music,
Fell at his feet, as if to ask for pardon.
But still the warfare raged, there was no limit,
Mad fury reigned, and even so, all weapons
Would have been softened by the singer's music,
But there was other orchestration: flutes
Shrilling, and trumpets braying loud, and drums,
Beating of breasts, and howling, so the lyre
Was overcome, and then at last the stones
Reddened with blood, the blood of the singer, heard
No more through all that outcry. All the birds
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Innumerable, fled, and the charmed snakes,
The train of beasts, Orpheus' glory, followed.
The Maenads stole the show. Their bloody hands
Were turned against the poet; they came thronging
Like birds who see an owl, wandering in daylight;
They bayed him down, as in the early morning,
Hounds circle the doomed stag beside the game-pits.
They rushed him, threw the wands, wreathed with green
leaves,
Not meant for such a purpose; some threw clods,
Some branches tom from the tree, and some threw stones,
And they found fitter weapons for their madness.
Not far away there was a team of oxen
Plowing the field, and near them farmers, digging
Reluctant earth, and sweating over their labor,
Who fled before the onrush of this army
Leaving behind them hoe and rake and mattock
And these the women grabbed, and slew the oxen
Who lowered horns at them in brief defiance
And were torn limb from limb, and then the women
Rushed back to murder Orpheus, who stretched out
His hands in supplication, and whose voice,
For the first time, moved no one. They struck him down,
And through those lips to which the rocks had listened,
To which the hearts of savage beasts responded,
His spirit found its way to winds and air.
The birds wept for him, and the throng of beasts,
The flinty rocks, the trees which came so often
To hear his song, all mourned. The trees, it seemed,
Shook down their leaves, as if they might be women
Tearing their hair, and rivers, with their tears,
Were swollen, and their naiads and their dryads
Mourned in black robes. The poet's limbs lay scattered
Where they were flung in cruelty or madness,
But Hebrus River took the head and lyre
[page 261]
And as they floated down the gentle current
The lyre made mournful sounds, and the tongue murmured
In mournful harmony, and the banks echoed
The strains of mourning. On the sea, beyond
Their native stream, they came at last to Lesbos
And grounded near the city of Methymna.
And here a serpent struck at the head, still dripping
With sea-spray, but Apollo came and stopped it,
Freezing the open jaws to stone, still gaping.
And Orpheus' ghost fled under the earth, and knew
The places he had known before, and, haunting
The fields of the blessed, found Eurydice
And took her in his arms, and now together
And side by side they wander, or Orpheus follows
Or goes ahead, and may, with perfect safety,
Look back for his Eurydice.
But Bacchus
Demanded punishment for so much evil.
Mourning his singer's loss, he bound those women,
All those who saw the murder, in a forest,
Twisted their feet to roots, and thrust them deep
Into unyielding earth. As a bird struggles
Caught in a fowler's snare, and flaps and flutters
And draws its bonds the tighter by its struggling,
Even so the Thracian women, gripped by the soil,
Fastened in desperate terror, writhed and struggled,
But the roots held. They looked to see their fingers,
Their toes, their nails, and saw the bark come creeping
Up the smooth legs; they tried to smite their thighs
With grieving hands, and struck on oak; their breasts
Were oak, and oak their shoulders, and their arms
You well might call long branches and be truthful.
And even this was not enough for Bacchus.
He left those fields, and with a worthier band
[page 262]
He sought the vineyards of his own Timolus
And Pactolus, a river not yet gold
Nor envied for its precious sands. The throng
He always had surrounded him, the satyrs,
The Bacchanals; Silenus, though, was missing.
The Phrygian rustics found him, staggering
Under the weight of years, and maybe also
>From more than too much wine, bound him with wreaths
And led him to King Midas. Now this king
Together with the Athenian Eumolpus
Had learned the rites of Bacchic lore from Orpheus.
And therefore, since he recognized a comrade,
A brother in the lodge, he gave a party
For ten long days and nights, and then, rejoicing,
Came to the Lydian fields and gave Silenus
Back to his precious foster son. And Bacchus,
Happy and grateful, and meaning well, told Midas
To make his choice of anything he wanted.
And Midas, never too judicious, answered:
"Grant that whatever I touch may turn to gold!"
Bacchus agreed, gave him the ruinous gift,
Sorry the monarch had not chosen better.
So Midas went his cheerful way, rejoicing
In his own bad luck, and tried to test the promise
By touching this and that. It all was true,
He hardly dared believe it! From an oak-tree
He broke a green twig loose: the twig was golden.
He picked a stone up from the ground; the stone
Paled with light golden color; he touched a clod,
The clod became a nugget. Awns of grain
Were a golden harvest; if he picked an apple
It seemed a gift from the Hesperides.
He placed his fingers on the lofty pillars
And saw them gleam and shine. He bathed his hands
In water, and the stream was golden rain
Like that which came to Danae. His mind
[page 263]
Could scarcely grasp his hopes--all things were golden,
Or would be, at his will! A happy man,
He watched his servants set a table before him
With bread and meat. He touched the gift of Ceres
And found it stiff and hard; he tried to bite
The meat with hungry teeth, and where the teeth
Touched food they seemed to touch on golden ingots.
He mingled water with the wine of Bacchus;
It was molten gold that trickled through his jaws.
Midas, astonished at his new misfortune,
Rich man and poor man, tries to flee his riches
Hating the favor he had lately prayed for.
No food relieves his hunger; his throat is dry
With burning thirst; he is tortured, as he should be,
By the hateful gold. Lifting his hands to Heaven,
He cries: "Forgive me, father! I have sinned.
Have mercy upon me, save me from this loss
That looks so much like gain!" The gods are kind,
And Bacchus, since he owned his fault, forgave him,
Took back the gift. "You need not be forever
Smeared with that foolish color: go to the stream
That flows by Sardis, take your way upstream
Into the Lydian hills, until you find
The tumbling river's source. There duck your head
And body under the foaming white of the fountain,
And wash your sin away." The king obeyed him,
And the power of the golden touch imbued the water,
So that even now the fields grow hard and yellow
If that vein washes over them to flood
Their fields with the water of the touch of gold.
Now Midas, hating wealth, haunted the forests,
The fields, and worshipped Pan, who has his dwelling
In the mountain caves. But Midas still was stupid,
[page 264]
And once again his foolish wits were destined
To do their master damage. Where Timolus
Looks out to sea, towering high, one slope
Falling to Sardis and the other slanting
Toward little Hypaepa, Pan was singing tunes
Tossing them off to the soft nymphs, and warbling
A trill or two on the reeds joined with wax,
Remarking that the music of Apollo
Was poor beside his own, and offering challenge
To an unequal contest, with Timolus
To be the umpire. So the ancient judge,
Seated on his own mountain, shook his ears
Loose from the trees. Around his dark-blue hair
An oaken chaplet twined; acorns hung down
Around his hollow temples. He looked at Pan,
"The judge is ready," he said, and Pan made music
On the rustic reeds, and the barbaric song
Delighted Midas utterly--it so happened
Midas was listening. Then old Timolus
Turned to Apollo, and his forests followed
As he inclined his gaze. Apollo's hair,
Golden, was wreathed with laurel of Parnassus,
His mantle, dipped in Tyrian crimson, swept
Along the ground. His lyre, inlaid with jewels,
With Indian ivory, his left hand held;
His right hand held the plectrum. You could tell
The artist from his bearing. With his thumb
He plucked the strings, and charmed by that sweet music,
Timolus ordered Pan to lower his reeds,
Submissive to the lyre, and all approved
The judgment of the holy god of the mountain,
All except Midas, who began to argue,
Calling it most unfair. Such stupid ears
Apollo thought, were surely less than human,
And so he made them longer, stuffed them full
Of gray and shaggy hair, and made their base
[page 265]
Unstable, giving them the power of motion.
The rest of him was human; this one feature
Alone was punished, and he wore the ears
Of the slow-going jackass. So, disfigured,
Ashamed, he tried to hide them with a turban,
But when he had his hair cut, then his barber
Saw, dared not tell, and wanted to, and could not
Keep matters to himself, no more than barbers
Today can do, and so he dug a hole
Deep in the ground, and went and whispered in it
What kind of ears King Midas had. He buried
The evidence of his voice, filled up the hole,
Sneaked silently away. But a thick growth
Of whispering reeds began to grow there; these,
At the year's end full-grown, betrayed the sower,
For when a light breeze stirred them, they would whisper
Midas has asses' ears! You can still hear them.
So, satisfied, Latona's son left Timolus,
Borne through the liquid air, this side of Helle,
The narrow sea, and landed on the plain
Midway between two capes, where an old altar
Sacred to Jove arose, Jove the All-Voicer,
And there Apollo saw Laomedon
Building the walls of his new city, Troy,
And saw the work was hard, and going slowly,
Demanding no small resource. He and Neptune,
The trident-bearing sire of swelling Ocean,
Assumed the form of men, and built the walls,
Payment in gold contracted for and promised.
There stood the work. But King Laomedon
Denied his obligation, adding lies,
Swearing he never agreed to such a bargain.
"Still, you will pay!" the sea-god roared, and loosed
His waters over the shore of that stingy country.
[page 266]
He flooded it to sea, swept off the crops,
Drowned fields, and this was not enough: the princess,
Hesione, he ordered, must be given
As prey to a sea-monster. She was bound
To the hard cliffs, and Hercules set her free,
And made demand for what he had been promised,
Payment in horses. And Laomedon
Once more denied the debt: too much, he said,
So Hercules stormed the walls, and Troy, twice liar,
Was taken twice, and Telamon, who shared
The soldiering with Hercules, received
Hesione as prize, and Peleus won
A goddess for a bride, the lovely Thetis.
Now many men had fathers who had been
The sons of Jove, but Peleus took more pride
In father-in-law than grandsire; he alone,
Of all Jove's grandsons, was the only one
To wed a goddess.
Old Proteus had told Thetis: "Goddess of the waves,
Conceive: you will be the mother of a son
Who, grown to manhood, will surpass his father,
Be called a greater man." The warning reached
The ears of Jove, who felt hot fires of love
Deep in his heart for Thetis, but wanted nothing
Above himself in all the universe;
Therefore he kept away from her embrace,
Bidding his grandson, the son of Aeacus,
Assume the role of lover, entering
This virgin of the ocean.
There is a bay
On the Thessalian coast, curved like a sickle,
Good harborage, were the water only deeper.
There sea runs smooth over the sandy shoal,
There shore holds firm, retains no footprint, halts
[page 267]
No traveler, is free from seaweed. Myrtle
Grows near, dense with bi-colored fruit; a cavern
Lies in the grove, made, possibly, by nature,
By art, more likely. To this cavern often
Came Thetis, naked, riding a bridled dolphin,
And Peleus found her there, and seized her, sleeping,
Pleaded, and had refusal for his answer,
And would have turned to force, but she escaped him
With those old arts she knew: she was a bird,
He held the bird; she was a tree; he clung
Holding the trunk; she was a spotted tigress,
And he let go, and turned and prayed to the sea-gods,
Pouring them wine, offering the smoke of incense,
Entrails of sheep, till the Carpathian sea-god
Rose from his depths with counsel: "You will have her
Some day, O son of Aeacus: you must catch her
Asleep in that deep cave, and bind her, sleeping,
With every kind of noose and snare, and hold her,
Hold her, for all the hundred lies she tells you
With changing form, till she becomes again
What once she was." And Proteus sank beneath
The waves that hid his features, as the waters
Closed over his words.
And the sun set, his car
Down-sloping to the ocean of the west,
As Thetis came, as always, to her rest
In that dark cave. Peleus had scarcely touched her
When she began her changing, but she found
She was held fast, her arms spread wide, and, sighing,
She said: "You must have had a god to help you,"
And so revealed herself, gave way, all Thetis,
And Peleus took her, so, and had his pleasure
And filled her with their son, the great Achilles.
Peleus was happy in his son, his goddess,
Happy in everything, if you forget
[page 268]
The murder of his brother. With that blood
Upon his hands, he left his father's kingdom,
Finding asylum in the land of Trachis.
Here Ceyx was king, Lucifer's son, who shone
With all his father's brightness on his face
Ruling a peaceful realm, but in these days
He was sorrowful, unlike himself, in shadow
Over a brother lost. To him came Peleus,
Care-worn, and travel-worn, with few companions,
Entering the city. In a shady valley
Not far from the walls, he left the sheep and cattle
He had brought with him, and as he neared the presence
Of the land's ruler, reached, with suppliant hand,
The branch of olive toward him, and the fillets,
And told him who he was, whose son he was,
Concealing only his crime, with Iying reasons
To justify his flight, asking asylum
In city or countryside. And Ceyx spoke kindly:
"Our kingdom, Peleus, lies always open
To humble people, and our disposition
Is further bent by your illustrious lineage,
There is no need of further prayer. Call on us
For what you wish; whatever you see is yours,
Only, I wish that what you saw was better!"
He spoke, and wept; and Peleus and his people
Wondered and asked him why, and heard the story.
"You think, perhaps," Ceyx said, "that bird you see there,
Hunter of other birds, and terror to them,
Was always feathered. No! He was once a man,
By name Daedalion, and, then as now,
For character is constant, he was fierce,
Aggressive, a lover of war and harshness always.
We both were sons of the Morning Star, and I
Loved peace and loved my wife, whereas my brother
[page 269]
Was all aggression, dominating kings
And nations, with that predatory instinct
Which now, in different form, pursues the doves
In the little town of Thisbe. He had a daughter,
Chione; she was lovely, and she had
A thousand suitors, more or less, though hardly
Into her teens. It happened that one day
Apollo, coming back from Delphi, saw her,
And Mercury, coming from Cyllene, saw her,
And when they saw, they wanted her. Apollo
Could wait till night, but Mercury, more eager,
Touched the girl's face with sleep-compelling wand,
And under his touch she lay, and felt his power.
And night had spangled heaven with its stars
By the time Apollo came to her, disguised
In an old woman's form, to take the pleasure
The other god had taken first. In time
A son was born, Autolycus, a schemer
With an inheritance, honestly come by,
Of sheer dishonesty, the kind of fellow
To make white black, or vice versa, worthy
Son of his father. And Apollo's offspring
(For Chione bore twins) was called Philammon,
Famous with song and lyre. But little good
It did Chione to have borne two sons,
Found favor with two gods, and be descended
>From Morning Star and Jove. Glory is often
An evil, too; it has been so with many,
It surely was with her, for she had boasted
Herself above Diana, and disparaged
The beauty of that goddess, who retorted
"Our actions, it may be, will suit you better!"
And bent the bow, sent the swift arrow flying,
To pierce that guilty tongue, and the tongue was silent,
Forming no words, no sounds, and as she tried
To speak, life left her with her blood. My sorrow
[page 270]
Was like a father's sharing my brother's grief,
And I said words to comfort him. He heard them
As a rock hears the murmur of the ocean,
And all the answer he gave was lamentation
Until he saw the funeral pyre burning,
Then he dashed toward the fire--four times he tried
To join his daughter, and four times was driven
Back from the pyre, and rushed, the way a bullock
Rushes with hornets at his neck and shoulders,
Where no path lay, and in his rush he seemed
Swifter than any human being could be.
You would think his feet had wings. He fled us all,
Swift in his longing for death, and gained Parnassus
And flung himself from that high cliff. Apollo
Took pity on him, held him high in air
On sudden wings, made him a bird, and gave him
Hooked beak, hooked talons, but he left him still
His old-time fierceness, greater than his body,
And now he is a hawk, vindictive judger,
With charity to none, for, having suffered,
He must make others suffer."
As Ceyx' story ended, in came rushing,
All out of breath, a fellow called Onetor,
Herdsman of Peleus, crying: "Peleus, Peleus!
It is terrible, I tell you!" And his master,
Anxious and trembling, bade him tell the story.
"I had driven the weary herd to the curving shore
Just at high noon, and some of them were kneeling
On the yellow sand and looking over the water,
The smooth and level sea, and some were moving
And grazing, slowly, and some of them, in the water,
Stood there, neck-deep. There is a temple there,
Beside the sea; it does not shine with marble
Nor any gold, it is made of heavy timbers,
[page 271]
Under the shadow of an ancient grove.
The place is sacred, so a sailor told me,
Drying his nets along the shore, to Nereus,
A local god, he said, and to his daughters.
And not far off there was a marsh with willows
Where the sea backed up sometimes. Out of here came
A terrible crashing noise, and everybody
Was frightened, and a beast came out, a wolf,
Smeared with the mud of the marsh, and his chopping jaws
Bloody and flecked with foam, and his eyes red
With blazing fire. He was mad with rage and hunger,
The rage was the worst. He did not seem to care
To satisfy his hunger on the cattle,
To stay with one slain bullock and devour it,
No, he went slaughtering, ripping, tearing, mangling
Through the whole herd, and some of us, who tried
To drive him off, were killed or wounded. Shore
And swamp and shallow water red with blood
Resounded to the bellowing of the cattle.
Delay is fatal; while there still is something
To fight for, let us take up arms together,
Together attack this beast!" And so Onetor
Finished his story. Peleus did not mind
The loss of the cattle, but his guilty conscience
Knew well that Phocus' mother, Psamathe
The Nereid, had put this vengeance on him
For Phocus slain. And meanwhile Ceyx had ordered
His men to put their armor on, take spears,
He was ready to go with them, but his wife,
Alcyone, came rushing from her chamber,
Roused by the din, and flung her arms around him,
Begged him with prayers and tears to stay, to send
Whatever aid he would, but save two lives,
Her own and his, by keeping out of it.
Aeacus spoke: "Your fears, O queen, become you:
Put them at rest. I am grateful for the offer,
[page 272]
And yet I do not wish that arms be taken
In my behalf. What I must do is pray
To the goddess of the sea." There was a tower,
A lighthouse high on the mountain-top, a beacon,
Most welcome sight to storm-tossed vessels. Thither
They climbed, and from that height looked down and saw,
And groaned to see, the cattle Iying dead
Along the shore, and the killer there among them,
Red-jawed, and the long shaggy hair stained red with blood.
There Peleus, reaching arms out over the sea,
Prayed to the Nereid to end her anger,
Forgive and help him. Still she would not listen
Till Thetis intervened and won her pardon.
But still the wolf kept on: the blood was sweet
To drink, no power could call him back; he buried
His fangs in a young heifer's neck, and there
And then was changed to marble. All but his color
Remained the same, but the color proved him surely
No longer wolf, no longer dreadful. Peleus
Went on, as the Fates ordered, toward Magnesia,
Where, from the king Acastus, he received
The expiation of the guilt upon him.
And all this while King Ceyx was troubled, anxious
Over his brother's fate, and other portents
Following that, and so he planned to journey
To Claros, to the oracle that offers
Help to mankind in trouble. He might have gone
To Delphi, which was nearer, but the road
Was dangerous, with Phorbas and the Phlegyans
Profaning it with lawless depredation.
He told Alcyone, and she was frightened,
Chilled to the bone; her face was pale as boxwood,
She wept, and tried to speak, three times, and could not
Utter a word for weeping, and at last
[page 273]
Spoke through her sobbing: "O my dearest husband,
What fault of mine has brought this purpose on you?
Do you not love me any more? How can you
Abandon me with never a thought? The road
Is long, and you are happy. Am I dearer
In absence? You are going overland,
I trust, I hope, so I shall only grieve,
Not grieve in terror, for the sea is frightful,
Its look appalling. Not so long ago
I looked at timbers broken on the shore,
I have read, on empty tombs, the names of sailors.
And do not fool yourself with false assurance
Because my father rules the winds, and holds them
Behind strong bars, and when he wills can calm
The ocean's rage. I tell you, when the winds
Have been turned loose, have gained the deep, they suffer
No calling back, and every land and ocean
Is at their mercy; they will even batter
At Heaven, and rouse red lightning with their warfare.
The more I know them, and I really know them
--I have seen them when I was a little girl
Around my father's house--the more I think them
Dreadful indeed. But if no prayer, dear husband,
Can change your purpose, only too determined
To go, then take me with you. We shall be
Tossed by the storms together, and, together,
Can fear what we endure, and shall not need
To fear what we imagine. We can endure
Whatever comes, so we endure together."
Ceyx loved her, he was deeply moved; he could not
Give up his plan to go by sea, and could not
Expose her to such risk. He tried to soothe her;
Still she would not approve, and so he added
One promise, the only one to win her over:
"Every delay is long to us, I know it,
I swear to you, b the fires of the Morning Star,
[page 274]
If fate will only let me, in two months
I will be home again." So she was hopeful.
He had the ship made ready, and, once again,
At sight of the ship, Alycone was frightened
With premonitions, wept again, embraced him,
Spoke one sad word, "Farewell!" and could not bear it,
Fainting to earth.
And the young rowers, eager
When Ceyx would take it slow, drew back the oars
To strong young breasts, and set the waters churning
With even stroke. She raised her eyes, and saw him
On the high stern, waving his hand to her,
And she waved back, and the ship went sailing on,
Until she could not see him, but she watched
The ship go sailing on; hull down, it vanished,
All but the sail, until she saw no longer
Even the sail, and turned to her lonely chamber,
Flung herself down to weep, and wept the more
For place and couch brought home the sense of absence.
Now he was gone.
They had left the harbor. The wind
Freshened, and rigging creaked, and the captain ordered
Oars in! They spread all sail, the ship went skimming,
They were halfway over the sea, and night came on
With roughening wave, white water, and the wind
Rising to gale. Lower the yard, reef sail!
The captain ordered, but his cry was drowned
In the yell of the wind and the uproar of the ocean.
But some of them, from their own wit and knowledge,
Had sense enough to ship the oars, to reef
The sail, to take the yardarms down, to fasten
Whatever could be fastened, to bail out water,
Pouring the sea into the sea again,
And through all this confusion, still the wind
Was rising: it seemed to come from every quarter,
Seas running mountain-high, until the captain
[page 275]
Lost all his nerve. He did not know, he told them,
What shape the ship was in, he could not give them
Orders: whatever he said, the storm knew better,
It had more power than he did. All was riot,
The shouts of men, the creaking of the cordage,
The roar of the wave, the artillery of thunder.
The spray was flung at the stars, the water yellowed
With sand sucked up from the depths; the water blackened
The color of Stygian rivers, or the waves
Spread out all white with seething foam. The ship
Had only chance as master; now she rode
High on the mountain-top and saw below her
Valleys and pit of Hell, or now she sank
Deep in the trough and from the infernal pools
Looked up at Heaven's mountains. And her sides
Take crashing blows, the pound of the waves as heavy
As battering-ram against the walls of a fortress.
Even as savage lions gain new fury
As they come charging on to breast the weapons,
The arms held out against them, so the billows,
Lashed by the rising winds, rush at the vessel,
And tower high, and the hull gives way, the caulking
Is loosened. Death pours in. From the bursting clouds
Rain falls in torrents; you would think that heavens
Were drowning in the seas, or oceans mounting
The regions of the sky. The sails are dripping,
Salt and fresh water mingled. Not a star
Shines in the sky, and the night darkens under
Its own and the storm's gloom, but lightning blinks
Across the shadows, and the waters redden
Under the sheets of fire. The flood comes pouring
Into the hull. You may have seen a soldier,
More daring than the others, in his effort
To scale the walls until at last, triumphant,
Burning for praise, he leaps the wall and stands
One man among a thousand; so, when the waves
[page 276]
Nine times have battered at the ship's tall sides,
The tenth one, leaping higher, comes on with a rush,
Climbs over, and goes down inside the vessel.
Part of the waves are still, at best, besiegers,
Part are within the walls. Skill fails. Nerve falters.
There is death in every wave. One man is crying,
Another stricken dumb; one envies the dead
On land, who may be buried, and another
Calls on the gods in prayer and lifts his arms
In vain to skies he cannot see. One man
Thinks of his brothers and his father; one
Of home and children, all of what is gone.
But Ceyx thinks of Alcyone; no other
Is in his heart, and through the pain of absence
Finds consolation that she is not with him.
He would turn his gaze to her, toward home and country,
If he knew where to look, but where he is
He does not know, for the sea boils black, and shadows
Of pitch-black cloud hide all the sky; the darkness
Is double night. A whirling rush of wind
Shatters the mast, and the rudder breaks and shatters.
One final wave, prouder than any victor,
Looks down upon the rest. Athos and Pindus
Could do no worse, if torn from their foundations
And hurled in the open sea. This final wave
Came toppling down and under its great weight
The ship went to the bottom, and the sailors,
Most of them, if not all, in the suck of the whirlpool
Saw their last day in that black night. A few
Had wreckage to hold on to; Ceyx himself
With the hand that held a sceptre clung to something,
Some fragment of a spar, and called in vain
On Lucifer, on Aeolus, most of all
On his remembered wife. Over and over
The swimmer calls her name, prays that the waves
May wash his body to her over the waters,
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That in his death her hands, so dear to him,
May tend his funeral offices. He calls her
While he can keep afloat, as long as the waves
Forbear to choke him, he calls Alcyone.
He murmurs her name into the rush of the waters.
At last a huge black arc of water, swinging
Up, over, and down, plunges him fathoms under.
The Morning Star was dim that day; you could not
Tell him at all, mourning behind the clouds,
Unable to quit his station in the heavens.
Meanwhile, quite ignorant of all this evil,
Alcyone was counting off the days,
Weaving the robes for him to wear, and weaving
Those she will wear when he comes home, so sure
He will come home to her. She burned the incense
For all the gods, but most of all for Juno,
Approached her altar meekly, in petition
For one who lived no more. Oh, keep him safe,
Let him return, let him love no other woman!
Only this last, of all her prayers, was granted.
But Juno found this irksome, all the praying
For a man dead and gone: to free her altar
>From the touch of mourning hands, she summoned Iris,
Ordered her to the drowsy house of Sleep
To tell that god to send Alycone
A dream of Ceyx, to tell the truth about him.
So Iris, in her thousand-colored mantle,
A rainbow through the sky, sought out the palace
Under the cloud, the royal home of Sleep.
Far down, far under a Cimmerian mountain,
A cavern winds, the home of lazy Sleep,
His dwelling-place and shrine. No sunlight ever
Comes there at morning, noon, or evening, only
A dubious twilight, and the ground is dark
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With mist, and the fog settles there. No bird
With clarion cry ever calls out the morning,
Dogs never break the silence with their barking,
Geese never cackle, cattle never low,
No boughs move in the stir of air, no people
Talk in their human voices. Only quiet.
>From under the rock's base a little stream,
A branch of Lethe, trickles, with a murmur
Over the shiny pebbles, whispering Sleep!
Before the doors great beds of poppies bloom
And other herbs, whose juices Night distils
To sprinkle slumber over the darkened earth.
There is no door to turn upon its hinge
With jarring sound, no guardian at the gate.
But in the very center, a dark couch
Rises on ebony framework, all one color,
Downy and soft, and with a counterpane
Of black thrown over it. Here the god is Iying,
Dissolved in slumber. And around him lie,
In various forms, the unsubstantial dreams,
As numerous as the wheat-ears of the harvest,
The green leaves of the woods, or grains of sand
Along the shore.
The Maiden Goddess
Entered, using her hands to part the dreams,
To clear her way, and the shining of her garments
Brightened the holy home, and the god saw her,
Blinking his eyes half-open, letting them close,
Nodded, woke almost, over and over tried,
Failed over and over, and roused himself, and leaned
Supported on one elbow, recognized her
And asked why she had come there. And she answered:
"O mildest of the gods, most gentle Sleep,
Rest of all things, the spirit's comforter,
Router of care, O soother and restorer,
Juno sends orders: counterfeit a dream
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To go, in the image of King Ceyx, to Trachis,
To make Alcyone see her shipwrecked husband."
And, her instruction given, Iris left him,
For all too soon the magic spell of slumber
Was stealing through her limbs, and she soared upward
Along the rainbow arch she had descended.
And Sleep roused Morpheus from his thousand sons,
Best of them all at imitating humans,
Their garb, their gait, their speech, rhythm and gesture.
It is only men he imitates; another
Assumes the form of beast or bird or serpent,
And him the gods call Icelos, but mortals
Call him Phobetor. A third is Phantasos,
Who has a different skill, wears shapes of earth,
Rocks, water, trees, and all inanimate things.
There are dream-gods here who show themselves by night
To kings and rulers only, and there are others
Who come to common people. The old god
Passes them by, and chooses from the brothers
Morpheus alone, to do what Iris ordered.
Then, once more in soft drowsiness, all loosened,
He let his nodding head find the deep pillow.
Morpheus flew on, on noiseless wings, through darkness,
Came to the city, and put off his pinions,
And took the face and form of Ceyx, the pallor
A dead man has, and, naked, stood before
Alcyone's bed; his beard was wet, and water
Streamed from his sodden hair, and tears ran down
As he bent over her: "O wretched wife,
Do you recognize your husband? Have I changed
Too much in death? Look at me! You will know me,
Your husband's ghost, no more your living husband.
I am dead, Alcyone; your prayers brought me
No help at all. Cherish your hope no longer.
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The storm-winds caught my ship and wrecked her there,
Far out on the Aegean, and my mouth,
Calling your name, had salt to drink. No rumor,
No doubtful message this: I, as you see me,
A shipwrecked man, tell you my fate. Arise,
Weep for me, and put on your mourning garments,
Let me not fare an unlamented journey
To the cheerless world below!" The voice of Morpheus
Was that of Ceyx; how could she help but know it?
The tears were real, and even the hands went moving
The way his used to. So, in her sleep, she wept
And wailed and tried to take him in her arms,
Found nothing but the air, and cried aloud:
"Wait for me! I will go wherever you do."
Her own voice woke her, seeing him; she started,
Looked for him in the lamplight, for the servants,
Hearing her cries, had brought in light. She looked
And did not see him, and she struck her cheeks,
Tore at her hair, tore off her robes, her fists
Beating her breasts. She screamed at the poor nurse
Who asked her what the trouble was: "The queen
Alycone is nothing, nothing, dead
With Ceyx. Give me no comfort, he is dead,
Shipwrecked and dead. I saw him and I knew him,
I reached my hands out to him, but he vanished.
I would have held him back. It was a ghost,
My husband's ghost; it could not be mistaken,
Though it looked different, and the light was gone
He used to wear. I saw him, pale and naked,
His hair still dripping. Oh, I know I saw him!
He stood just there--" and she broke off, to see
If there were any footprints. "This I knew,
This I could see, when you went sailing from me.
I begged you not to leave me, and you might have
Taken me with you. That would have been better,
To be with you in life, and in our death
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Not to have been divided. I have perished
Far from myself; far from myself I am flung
Tossed on the cruel waves, and the sea holds me
Where I am not. My heart would be more cruel
Than ever the sea was to me, if I tried
To keep on living, to survive my sorrow.
I shall not try; I shall not leave you, husband,
And now at least I shall come to you, be with you.
The tomb may never join us two together,
But the letter on the stone will be more kindly:
Bones may not lie with bones, but name and name
Will touch each other." Grief would let her say
No more, and all her words went out in wailing.
It was morning, and she left her house to wander
Along that seashore, found the place again
Where she had watched him sail, and while she lingered,
And while she said, "Just here he loosed the cable:
Just here he stood and kissed me," dwelling, so,
On every recollection, out to the sea
She gazed, and out at sea caught sight of something,
A body, it might have been. She was not sure
At first, but the waves washed it a little closer.
It was a body, whose, she could not tell,
But someone shipwrecked, and the omen moved her
To weep for the unknown dead: "Alas, poor fellow,
Whoever you are, poor wife, if you are married!"
And the waves washed the body a little closer
To her great hurt, and as it neared the land,
She knew--it was her husband. "Here he is!"
She screamed, and reached her trembling hands out, crying:
"O my poor husband, my dearest, must you come
Home to me so?" There was a jetty there
To break the onslaught of the rushing ocean.
She ran along it, leaped into the sea
--A marvel that she could--and never fell,
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But seemed to skim the surface, like a bird
On new-found wings, and as she flew, unhappy,
Her mouth, a slender bill, made sounds like one
Complaining, sorrowful. She reached the body
Lifeless and still, tried to embrace the limbs
With her new wings, in vain, and tried to kiss
Cold lips with her rough bill. No one could say
Whether Ceyx felt those kisses and responded,
Or whether it was the lift of the waves alone
That made him raise his face. But he had felt them,
And through the pity of the gods, the husband
Became a bird, and joined his wife. Together
They suffered, and together loved; no parting
Followed them in their new-found form as birds.
They mate, have young, and in the winter season,
For seven days of calm, Alcyone
Broods over her nest on the surface of the waters
While the sea-waves are quiet. Through this time
Aeolus keeps his winds at home, and ocean
Is smooth for his descendants' sake.
An old man
Watching them skim, together, the wide waters,
Praised their enduring love. He, or another,
(It would not matter) pointing to a diver
With his long neck outstretched, began a story:
"That bird you see there, skimming over the water,
Trailing his long thin legs, was also royal.
His ancestors, to have them in their order,
Were Ilus and Assaracus, Ganymede,
Laomedon and Priam, the last ruler
Of ancient Troy. This fellow was a brother
Of Hector, and might have been as great as Hector
Save for the fate that took him young. He was
Hector's half-brother, really, for his mother
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Was not Queen Hecuba, but a nymph, the daughter
Of hornĖd Granicus. He was born in secret
Beneath the shades of Ida; he loathed the cities,
Kept out of shining palaces, a dweller
On far-off mountains and in country places
Where no ambitions grew; he rarely traveled
Among the crowds of Troy. Yet he was not
A yokel altogether: he had feelings,
Was not averse to love. One day he saw
Hesperia, Cebren's daughter, as she dried
Her hair in the sunlight by her father's river.
He had followed her often through the darker woodlands.
Now, as she saw him, she was gone, a deer
Fleeing the wolf, a bird, caught far from her pool,
Surprised by the hawk. And still he followed her
As swift in love as she in fear. A serpent,
Hidden, struck from the grass at the flashing ankles,
Left poison in her veins, poison that ended
Pursuit and life. And Aesacus, in anguish,
Embraced the lifeless body, crying and sobbing:
'Oh, I repent, repent! I did not know
That my pursuit meant death. It was not worth it
To win at such a cost! We have destroyed you,
We two, serpent and I: one gave the wound,
The other the cause. I am the guiltier,
But by my death I can bring you this much comfort,
One death to match another!' And as he spoke,
Aesacus flung himself from the tall cliff
Whose base the hoarse resounding waves had hollowed,
But Tethys, pitying him, received him gently,
Covered his body with plumage, and denied him
The privilege of death. He fought against it,
Angry at life, and with his new wings on him,
Soared up, came hurtling down, but the soft feathers
Lightened his fall. In a wild rage he dove
Deep into the water, tried to drown; his fury,
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His love, had made him lean: between the joints
His legs grew long, and his long neck grew longer,
His head was far from his body, and to this day
He loves the sea, and his new name is Mergus,
Or The Submerger, the inveterate diver."