Alcithoe, however, Minyas' daughter
Would have no part in Bacchic orgies; further,
She was rash enough to say the god was really
No son of Jove. Her sisters sided with her.
The priest had ordered Bacchic celebration,
With serving-women, freed of toil, and ladies
As well as servants, dressed alike, in skins
Of animals; all should unbind the ribbons,
Let the hair stream, wear garlands, carry wands
Vine-wreathed. The god, his minister proclaimed,
Would otherwise be fearful in his anger.
So all obey, young wives and graver matrons,
Forget their sewing and weaving, the daily duties,
Bum incense, call the god by all his titles,
The Loud One, the Deliverer from Sorrow,
Son of the Thunder, The Twice-Born, The Indian,
The Offspring of Two Mothers, God of the Wine-Press,
The Night-hallooed, and all the other names
Known in the towns of Greece. He is young, this god,
A boy forever, fairest in the Heaven,
Virginal, when he comes before the people
With the horns laid off his forehead. Even Ganges
In far-off India bows down before him,
The slayer of the sacrilegious Pentheus,
Destroyer, too, of impious Lycurgus
[page 82]
Whose battle-axe, one time, was raised against him.
He turned the Tuscan sailors into dolphins.
The Iynxes draw his car, with bright reins harnessed,
Satyrs, Bacchantes, follow, and Silenus,
The wobbling old drunkard, totters after,
Either on foot, with a stick to help him hobble,
As shaky on three legs as two, or bouncing
Out of the saddle on his wretched burro.
Wherever Bacchus goes, the cries of women
Hail him, and young men's joyful shouts, and drum
And timbrels sound, and cymbals clash, and flutes
Pipe shrill.
"Be with us, merciful and mild!"
The Theban women cry, and, crying, cherish
The sacred rites as ordered. Only the daughters
Of Minyas keep to themselves inside their houses
Spoiling the holiday, spinning the wool,
Tending the loom, keeping the servants working.
And one of these, while plying thread and needle,
Said: "While the others have all gone off together
To all this what-do-you-call-it kind of service,
Let us, who worship a better goddess, Pallas,
Lighten our task a little by telling stories."
They all agreed and asked her to begin.
She knew so many stories she was doubtful
Which to begin with: about Dercetis, maybe,
A girl turned into a fish, all covered with scales,
Swimming a pool near Babylon; or her daughter,
A pure white pigeon, who lived out her days
On the high towers; and then there was the story
About a naiad, who, by charms and simples,
Turned small boys into fishes, and became
A fish herself; or how the mulberry-tree
Changed the fruit's color from white to the deep crimson,
From the stain of blood. This story seemed the best one,
Not being known too well. And so she told it.
"Next door to each other, in the brick-walled city
Built by Semiramis, lived a boy and girl,
Pyramus, a most handsome fellow, Thisbe,
Loveliest of all those Eastern girls. Their nearness
Made them acquainted, and love grew, in time,
So that they would have married, but their parents
Forbade it. But their parents could not keep them
>From being in love: their nods and gestures showed it
--You know how fire suppressed burns all the fiercer.
There was a chink in the wall between the houses,
A flaw the careless builder had never noticed,
Nor anyone else, for many years, detected,
But the lovers found it--love is a finder, always
--Used it to talk through, and the loving whispers
Went back and forth in safety. They would stand
One on each side, listening for each other,
Happy if each could hear the other's breathing,
And then they would scold the wall: 'You envious barrier,
Why get in our way? Would it be too much to ask you
To open wide for an embrace, or even
Permit us room to kiss in? Still, we are grateful,
We owe you something, we admit; at least
You let us talk together.' But their talking
Was futile, rather; and when evening came
They would say Good-night! and give the good-night kisses
That never reached the other.
"The next morning
Came, and the fires of night burnt out, and sunshine
Dried the night frost, and Pyramus and Thisbe
Met at the usual place, and first, in whispers,
Complained, and came--high time!--to a decision.
That night, when all was quiet, they would fool
Their guardians, or try to, come outdoors,
Run away from home, and even leave the city.
[page 84]
And, not to miss each other, as they wandered
In the wide fields, where should they meet? At Ninus'
Tomb, they supposed, was best; there was a tree there,
A mulberry-tree, loaded with snow-white berries,
Near a cool spring. The plan was good, the daylight
Was very slow in going, but at last
The sun went down into the waves, as always,
And the night rose, as always, from those waters.
And Thisbe opened her door, so sly, so cunning,
There was no creaking of the hinge, and no one
Saw her go through the darkness, and she came,
Veiled, to the tomb of Ninus, sat there waiting
Under the shadow of the mulberry-tree.
Love made her bold. But suddenly, here came something!
--A lioness, her jaws a crimson froth
With the blood of cows, fresh-slain, came there for water,
And far off through the moonlight Thisbe saw her
And ran, all scared, to hide herself in a cave,
And dropped her veil as she ran. The lioness,
Having quenched her thirst, came back to the woods, and saw
The girl's light veil, and mangled it and mouthed it
With bloody jaws. Pyramus, coming there
Too late, saw tracks in the dust, turned pale, and paler
Seeing the bloody veil. 'One night,' he cried,
'Will kill two lovers, and one of them, most surely,
Deserved a longer life. It is all my fault,
I am the murderer, poor girl; I told you
To come here in the night, to all this terror,
And was not here before you, to protect you.
Come, tear my flesh, devour my guilty body,
Come, lions, all of you, whose lairs lie hidden
Under this rock! I am acting like a coward,
Praying for death.' He lifts the veil and takes it
Into the shadow of their tree; he kisses
The veil he knows so well, his tears run down
[page 85]
Into its folds: 'Drink my blood too!' he cries,
And draws his sword, and plunges it into his body,
And, dying, draws it out, warm from the wound.
As he lay there on the ground, the spouting blood
Leaped high, just as a pipe sends water spurting
Through a small hissing opening, when broken
With a flaw in the lead, and all the air is sprinkled.
The fruit of the tree, from that red spray, turned crimson,
And the roots, soaked with the blood, dyed all the berries
The same dark hue.
"Thisbe came out of hiding,
Still frightened, but a little fearful, also,
To disappoint her lover. She kept looking
Not only with her eyes, but all her heart,
Eager to tell him of those terrible dangers,
About her own escape. She recognized
The place, the shape of the tree, but there was something
Strange or peculiar in the berries' color.
Could this be right? And then she saw a quiver
Of limbs on bloody ground, and started backward,
Paler than boxwood, shivering, as water
Stirs when a little breeze ruffles the surface.
It was not long before she knew her lover,
And tore her hair, and beat her innocent bosom
With her little fists, embraced the well-loved body,
Filling the wounds with tears, and kissed the lips
Cold in his dying. 'O my Pyramus,'
She wept, 'What evil fortune takes you from me?
Pyramus, answer me! Your dearest Thisbe
Is calling you. Pyramus, listen! Lift your head!'
He heard the name of Thisbe, and he lifted
His eyes, with the weight of death heavy upon them,
And saw her face, and closed his eyes.
"And Thisbe
Saw her own veil, and saw the ivory scabbard
With no sword in it, and understood. 'Poor boy,'
[page 86]
She said, 'So, it was your own hand,
Your love, that took your life away. I too
Have a rave hand for this one thing, I too
Have love enough, and this will give me strength
For the last wound. I will follow you in death,
Be called the cause and comrade of your dying.
Death was the only one could keep you from me,
Death shall not keep you from me. Wretched parents
Of Pyramus and Thisbe, listen to us,
Listen to both our prayers, do not begrudge us,
Whom death has joined, Iying at last together
In the same tomb. And you, O tree, now shading
The body of one, and very soon to shadow
The bodies of two, keep in remembrance always
The sign of our death, the dark and mournful color.'
She spoke, and fitting the sword-point at her breast,
Fell forward on the blade, still warm and reeking
With her lover's blood. Her prayers touched the gods,
And touched her parents, for the mulberry fruit
Still reddens at its ripeness, and the ashes
Rest in a common urn."
The story ended,
There was a pause, and then another sister,
Leuconoe, broke through the listening silence:
"The Sun sees all things first. The Sun, they say,
Was the first one who spied on Mars and Venus
When they were making love. The Sun, offended
Went with the story to her husband, Vulcan,
Telling him all, the when, the how, the where,
And Vulcan dropped whatever he was doing,
And made a net, with such fine links of bronze
No eye could see the mesh: no woolen thread
Was ever so delicate, no spider ever
Spun filament so frail from any rafter.
[page 87]
He made it so the slightest touch would bend it,
The slightest movement make it give, and then
He spread it over the bed, and when the lovers
Came there again, the husband's cunning art
Caught them and held them fast, and there they were
Held in each other's arms, and Vulcan, lord
Of Lemnos, opened wide the ivory doors
And called the gods to come and see. They lay there,
The two, in bondage, in disgrace. And some one,
Not the least humorous of the gods in Heaven,
Prayed that some day he might be overtaken
By such disgrace himself. And there was laughter
For a long time in Heaven, as the story
Was told and told again.
"But Venus never
Forgot that spy, and took her vengeance on him.
She had her turn at getting even, spoiling
A love affair for him, the one who spoiled
A love affair for her. Of what avail
Was all that beauty, brightness, radiant light?
The god, whose fire lights all the world, was burning
Himself with foreign fire. The god, who should have
Looked equally on all created creatures,
Saw nothing but one girl, Leucothoe,
Turning on her alone the eyes, whose province
Belonged to all the world. He would rise too early
>From the Eastern sky, would sink too late to Ocean,
Would lengthen the winter hours by long delaying
To look at her, sometimes would fail entirely
Because the darkness in the heart turned outward,
A darkness terrible to human beings.
That was no wanness from the moon's reflection
Between him and the earth; it was love that caused it.
He loved Leucothoe alone: Clymene
[page 88]
Held him no longer, nor that girl of Rhodes,
Nor Circe's lovely mother, nor even Clytie,
Scorned but devoted still, wounded, and loving.
All were forgotten for the sake of her,
Leucothoe, whose mother was the fairest
In all that land of aromatic fragrance,
Eurynome, her name was, and her daughter
Grew up to be more beautiful than her mother,
As much so as her mother outshone all others.
King Orchamus, her father, seventh in line
>From ancient Belus, ruled the Persian cities.
Under the Western skies the meadows lie
Where the Sun's horses feed. No common grass
Regales them, but ambrosia, so their bodies
Tired from their daily toil take strength again,
New every morning. While they were tethered here,
And The Moon went her rounds, the Sun-god entered
The room of his beloved, putting on
Eurynome's appearance. He saw the girl
Among a dozen handmaids, spinning wool,
Gave her the kind of kiss a mother might have,
Adding: 'We have a little private business:
Go away, girls!' And they obeyed; the room
Was left without a witness. Then the Sun-god
Revealed himself: 'I am the one who measures
The long year out, I see all things, and all men
See everything through me, the eye of the world.
I love you; do not doubt it.' She was frightened,
Let fall the spindle and distaff, but even her fright
Was most becoming. He delayed no longer,
Turned to his true appearance, the bright splendor,
And she, still fearful of the sudden vision,
Won over by that shining, took his passion
With no complaint.
"But Clytie, jealous, burning
[page 89]
No less for the Sun-god's love, and spurred by anger
Over this rival, made the affair as public
As ever she could, and went to special trouble
To tell Leucothoe's father. He had no pity,
He would not heed her prayers, her arms, uplifted
To the light of the sun, her cry He made me do it!
Deep in the earth he buried her and gave her
For tomb a heavy weight of sand. The Sun-god
Burned part of this away, so the poor girl
Might lift her head, and breathe, but all too late.
Leucothoe was only a lifeless body
Smothered and crushed. No sight more pitiful
Had dimmed the Sun-god's eyes since Phaethon
Fell to his blazing death. He tried in vain
With all the strength of his warm rays to bring
Her death-cold limbs to life again, and found
Fate was too powerful for all his trying,
And so, on body and ground he sprinkled nectar,
And mourned for her. 'But still you will reach Heaven,'
He said, and the body, under the heavenly nectar,
Melted away, and filled the earth around
With aromatic fragrance. And a shrub
Arose, the frankincense, with roots deep-driven
Into the earth, and the crest rising slowly
Above the burial-mound.
"And as for Clytie,
Love might have been a reason for her sorrow,
And sorrow for her telling tales, but never
Would the light-giver come to her again
To use her in the way of love, and so,
Since she was used to love, and almost crazy
For lack of it, she pined away; she hated
Her sisters; under the open sky, by day,
By night, she sat alone, bareheaded,
Naked, unkempt. For nine whole days she sat there,
With neither food nor drink, her hunger wanting
[page 90]
Nothing but dew and tears, unstirred, unstirring.
But still she watched his going, and her gaze
Followed him on his way across the Heaven.
Her limbs took root, and her wan color changed
To a wan leafing, with a little brightness
Where once her face had been; she was a flower,
Rooted, but turning always toward the sunlight,
Changed, but forever keeping love unchanging."
That was Leuconoe's story, and the others
Listened, spell-bound, and some did not believe it,
And others said that the true gods could make
Whatever they wanted happen, but as for Bacchus,
He was no true god. Alcithoe was next
To have her turn. She ran her shuttle
Through the thread of the loom, speedy and deft, and
told them:
"Some stories are too common, the love of Daphnis,
For instance, the young shepherd of Mount Ida,
Turned by a jealous nymph to stone, which goes
To show you the power of jealousy and anger.
Nor do I think I will tell you about Sithon
Who alternated being man and woman,
Nor about Celmis, playfellow of Jove
When he was little, and is adamant now
Whichever way you take the word. The rain
Brought the Curetes forth, never mind how,
And never mind how Crocus and his darling,
Smilax, were turned to little flowers. This one
Is new, and so I think you ought to like it.
You are going to hear the story of a fountain,
Salmacis, with an evil reputation,
Because its waters make men weak and feeble,
Whoever goes bathing there. The cause is hidden,
[page 91]
The fountain's enervating power well-known. A boy,
The son of Mercury and Cythera's goddess,
Was nurtured by the naiads in their caverns.
You could recognize his father and his mother
Both, in his handsome looks, and he took his name
>From both of them, Hermes, and Aphrodite,
Hence, you can see, he was called Hermaphroditus.
Fifteen years old, he left his native mountains,
Left Ida for the new delights, to wander
In unknown lands, to look at unknown rivers,
His eagerness making it very little trouble,
And so he came to Lycia and Caria,
And there he saw a pool, translucent even
To the very bottom. No marshy reeds grew round it,
No sedgy grass, no spiky rush: the water
Was clear as glass, and the pool's edges bordered
By greenest lawn, and in the pool was dwelling
A water-nymph, not one who cared for hunting,
Bending the bow, or racing. She would never
Follow Diana in the hunt. Her sisters
Used to reprove her, often, for not taking
Quiver and spear, for mingling with her leisure
The hardships of the chase. She would not listen,
But only kept on bathing in the water,
Or combing her lovely hair with a comb of boxwood,
Or looking into the mirror of the water
To find what dress was most becoming to her,
Put on diaphanous garments, and recline
To rest on the soft greenery, or gather
Bright-colored flowers, and she was gathering flowers
On this particular day, when she saw the youngster
And wanted what she saw.
"But still she waited,
Controlled her eagerness, a very little,
Just time enough to smooth her dress, to wear
Her most becoming look, to be as pretty
[page 92]
As ever she knew how. Then she called to him:
'Are you a god, dear boy? I could believe it,
And if you are, I think you must be Cupid.
If you are not a god, and only mortal,
How lucky your parents are, and brother and sister,
And wet-nurse, if you had one! But most lucky,
Luckiest of them all, your bride, if any
Is worthy, in your sight, to be so promised.
If there is such a girl, then let my pleasure
Be a secret, kept between us; if there is not,
Then marry me, let us go to bed together.'
That was all she said, but the youngster started blushing,
Out of pure ignorance of love. But blushing
Was most becoming. Apples have such color
In the sunny orchards, or ivory, when tinted,
Or the moon, eclipsed, the red below the white
When the bronze vessels of the superstitious
Clang loud to bring her back to life. The naiad
Kept pleading, begging for a kiss, at least
The kind one gives a sister. She was ready
To throw her arms about his snowy neck.
'Stop it!' he cried, 'Will you stop it? I am leaving
This place, and you.' Salmacis, trembling, answered:
'I leave the place to you, then,' and pretended
To go away, but looked back often, found
Bushes to hide in, and remained there watching.
And the boy, as if no one were looking at him,
Strolled over the grass, went wading in the water,
And quickly, captivated by the coolness,
Flung off his clothes. Desire of the naked body
Held her spell-bound; her eyes were bright and burning
As a sun-glass shines. She can hardly bear the waiting,
Hardly postpone her pleasure, mad to hold him,
Amorous, eager. He slaps his body, plunges
Into the pool, goes flailing through the water,
A white and gleaming figure, a lily-flower,
[page 93]
Or ivory, translucent glass around him.
'I win, I have him,' she cried, stripped herself naked,
Dove, swam to him, and held him fast, resisting,
Sought his reluctant kisses, touched his body,
Stroked his unwilling breast, embraced and held him
Whatever way she could. He fought and struggled,
But she wrapped herself around him, as a serpent
Caught by an eagle, borne aloft, entangles
Coils around head and talons, or as ivy
Winds round great oaks, or an octopus extends
Its prey within its tentacles. He refused her
The joy she wanted most, but still she held him
Body to body: he would not escape her,
Fight as he may. 'O grant me this,' she cried
In prayer to the gods, 'May no day ever come
To separate us!' and they heard her prayer,
And the two bodies seemed to merge together,
One face, one form. As when a twig is grafted
On parent stock, both knit, mature together,
So these two joined in close embrace, no longer
Two beings, and no longer man and woman,
But neither, and yet both.
"Hermaphroditus
Saw that the water had made him half a man,
With limbs all softness. He held out his arms,
Lifted a voice whose tone was almost treble,
Pleading: 'O father and mother, grant me this!
May every one hereafter, who comes diving
Into this pool, emerge half man, made weaker
By the touch of this evil water!' It was granted,
That prayer, and ever since that day the waters
Hold that contamination."
Alcithoe's story
Was over, but they kept on with their weaving,
[page 94]
Still scorning Bacchus and his holiday,
When suddenly timbrels sounded, unseen timbrels
Harsh in their ears, flutes piped, and horns resounded
And cymbals clashed, and all the air was full
Of the smell of myrrh and saffron, and their weaving
Turned green, and the hanging cloth resembled ivy
Or grape-vines, and the threads were tendrils clinging.
Leaves burgeoned on the warp, and purple clusters
Leaped from the tapestry's purple. Day had ended,
And the time was coming, neither dusk nor daylight,
The faint refulgent borderline of darkness,
And suddenly the building seemed to tremble,
The oily lamps to flare, the hearth to glow
With ruddy fire, and ghostly beasts were howling.
The sisters, hiding in the smoky rooms,
Fled from the fire and light and sought the shadows,
And over their frail limbs a film, a membrane,
Began to spread, and their arms were little wings.
They did not know, in the darkness, in what fashion
The change had come upon them; they were lifted
On no great mass of plumage, only on wings
So frail you could see through them. They tried to speak,
But the sounds they made were tiny as their bodies,
A squeak of protest. And still they flock to houses,
Not woods; they hate the light, and flit in darkness,
And science calls them Vespertiliones,
The bats, the evening-flutterers.
Now Bacchus
Was recognized through Thebes, a mighty godhead,
And everywhere, Ino, his mother's sister
Proclaimed his power. She, of all the sisters,
Escaped from suffering, except for grieving
Over the rest of them. Proud of her children,
Her husband, Athamas, and most of all
[page 95]
Proud of the god she fostered, she offended
Juno, who could not stand her. "So," she thought,
"My rival bears a child, and he has power
To transform sailors, give the flesh of a son
For his mother to tear to pieces, turn the daughters
Of Minyas into bats, and what can Juno
Do beyond weeping at insults unavenged?
Is that enough? Is that my only power?
But he himself has shown me what to do:
To learn from enemies is right and proper.
He has given more than ample demonstration
In the history of Pentheus, how far madness
Can go; so why should Ino not be spurred
To madness, down the road her sisters followed?"
There is a way that leads steep down, all shaded
By deadly yew-trees, leading through dumb silence
To Hell's abode. There Styx, the sullen river,
Breathes fog, and there the new ghosts come, descending
>From their due funerals. Pallor and chill
Hold these untended areas, and the spirits,
New-come, are lost and do not know the road
Toward the Stygian city and the palace
Of Dis, the dark one. But the city has
A thousand wide approaches, gates that open
On every side: as ocean takes the rivers
Streaming from all the world, so does this region
Receive all souls; there is always room for many,
For more and more, and the growing population
Is hardly noticed at all. And there they wander
The bloodless boneless disembodied spirits,
Crowding the forum or the royal palace
Or going through the motions they made while living.
Juno could face it if she must, her hatred,
Her anger, being what they were. Descending,
[page 96]
She crossed the threshold, and the threshold groaned
Beneath the substance of a heavenly body,
And Cerberus reared his head in triple baying.
She called to her the Furies, the night-born sisters,
Dreadful, implacable. They were sitting there
Before Hell's adamantine portals, combing
Black serpents out of their hair. They saw her coming
And rose. This place is called The Place Accursed.
Here Tityos, stretching over nine full acres,
Offers his vitals to be torn and eaten;
Here Tantalus forever tries and fails
To drink, and the fruit he reaches for forever
Eludes his hand; here Sisyphus forever
Rolls the great stone uphill, or else pursues it
As it comes bounding down; Ixion whirls,
Pursued, pursuing, on the turning wheel;
And Belus' daughters, the ones who killed their husbands,
Bail up the water in the sieves forever.
And Juno glowers at them, first Ixion,
Then Sisyphus, and asking: "Why does this one,
This brother, only, suffer endless torment
While Athamas dwells arrogant in his palace
With his queen Ino, scornful of my godhead?"
She tells the causes of her hate, her journey,
Her purpose: that the house of Cadmus fall,
The Furies drive Athamas mad. Her orders,
Promises, pleadings, all assail the sisters
In the one breath, and when she finished speaking,
Tisiphone, the grizzled one, shook back
Her matted locks. "There is no need," she answered
"Of going round and round: whatever you order
Consider done. Leave this unlovely kingdom,
Go back again to the air of happier Heaven."
So Juno went back happy, and found Iris
[page 97]
Waiting before the heavenly portals, ready
To sprinkle her with purifying water.
Tisiphone snatched up a torch, all steeped
In blood, put on a robe, still dripping
With the same crimson, wound around her waist
A writhing snake, and started on her errand.
Grief was her company, and Dread, and Terror,
And Madness, who could not control her features.
She stood on the threshold, and the very door-posts
Shrank from her touch, the shine of the polished maple
Dulled, and the sun went swiftly into hiding.
Ino was mad with terror, and her husband,
In panic, tried to get her out of the palace,
But the Fury would not let them go. Her arms,
With serpent-muscles, reached at them; her hair
Shook, and that nest of serpents hissed. Her shoulders,
Her breasts, were something snakes went crawling over,
Their flashing tongues spitting out blood and poison.
She found two in her hair, and tore them loose,
One for each victim. Over Ino's breast,
Over the breast of Athamas they glided,
Breathing their pestilential breath upon them.
Their bodies took no hurt, their minds alone
Received infection, and the Fury added
Foam from the jaws of Cerberus, and poison
>From the Hydra's glands, and wandering illusions
And mental darkness, crime, and tears, and madness,
And lust for murder, all of them compounded
With the green juice of hemlock, and the red
Of fresh arterial blood, all brewed together
In a bronze cauldron. As they stood there, shaking,
She poured this over their shoulders, and it ran
Down over their chests, into their hearts. She whirled
Her torch, in circles, through the air, and kindled
[page 98]
Fire with fire moving. And her task was done,
Her victory assured, and she descended
Back to the phantom regions, put aside
Her dress of serpents.
Athamas raved aloud
In the palace courtway: "Spread the nets here, comrades,
These woods are full of lions; I just saw one,
A female, with two cubs." He dashed at Ino
As if she were an animal. His son,
Learchus, laughing as if the game were funny,
Was torn from his mother's arms; Athamas swung him
Around his head, over and over, flung him
Head-first at a wall of rock. And then the mother,
Wild from her grief or the poisonous infection,
Howled, and went streaking off, with her hair streaming,
Holding her child, the little Melicerta,
Crying, "Hail, Bacchus!" Juno broke out laughing
At Bacchus' name: "Much good he will ever do you,
That precious foster-son!" A cliff hung over
The sea, whose beating waves had hollowed out
The lowest part, a roof against the rainfall,
But the top rose sharp and sheer above the water.
Here Ino climbed, for madness gave her strength
And fearlessness, and launched herself and her burden
Far out into the ocean, and the wave
Churned with white foam.
But Venus, taking pity
For her unmerited sorrow, spoke to Neptune:
"O god of the waves, whose power is second only
To Heaven, I ask great things: have pity on them,
These folk of mine, plunged in the vast Ionian,
And add them to your gods. Something is due me,
Some favor from the ocean-depths I sprang from,
A foam-born goddess." Neptune heard the prayer,
Took from the victims all their mortal being,
Gave them divinity, and changed both name
[page 99]
And form, gave the new god a name, Palaemon,
And called the goddess-mother Leucothea.
The Theban women, following after Ino
As best they could, saw the last traces of her
At the cliff's edge; certain that she had perished,
They wept for Cadmus' house, tore hair and garments,
Called Juno unfair, too cruel to her rival.
This Juno would not stand for, and she told them:
"How cruel I am you shall be the greatest witness."
No sooner said than done. Ino's most faithful
Companion cried: "I follow my queen!" and would have
Taken the leap, but could not move a muscle,
Stood rooted to the rock. And then another,
Trying to beat her breasts, felt arms upraised
Stiffen; another, reaching over ocean
Her hands, became a woman of stone; another,
Pulled at her hair and felt her fingers harden,
Caught in the very gesture. So they all,
Or nearly all, posed in that stone, but some,
Once Theban women, skimmed the water as sea-birds.
Now Cadmus did not know that daughter and grandson
Had become sea-gods; overborne with sorrow,
And one misfortune after another, conquered
By all the portents he had seen, he left
The city he had founded, as if luck,
Not his own fate, oppressed him, and he wandered
Long with his queen until they reached Illyria.
They were sad, and old, and they kept talking over
The troubles of their house. "Was that a serpent
Slain by my spear so long ago," asked Cadmus,
"When I was fresh from Sidon? Did I sow
A serpent's teeth in the ground, to generate
New men? If this is what the gods are angry over,
[page 100]
May I become a serpent, with a body
stretched full-length forward!" Even as he spoke
He stretched out full-length forward, felt his skin
Harden, and scales increase, and mottled markings
Sprinkle his blackening body. He fell forward,
Crawled on his belly, with his legs behind him
Drawn in, and tapering. He still had arms
And tried to reach them forward; his cheeks were human,
And tears ran down them, as he cried: "Come nearer,
My poor dear wife, while there is something left
For you to come to; come and touch my hand
Before I have no hand, am wholly serpent."
He wanted to say more, but found his tongue
Suddenly forked; instead of words, a hissing
Spoke his lament: Nature had left him nothing
Save this one power. She beat her breast. "O Cadmus,
Unhappy man," she cried, "remain, put off
This horrible appearance! What is this?
Where are your feet, your shoulders, hands, complexion,
Your--all of you? Why not transform me also,
Gods of the Heaven, into another serpent?"
He licked her face, glided between her breasts
As if he knew them, twined around her neck,
While all who stood there watching shook in horror.
But the queen only stroked the serpent neck,
Crested but smooth, and suddenly there were only
Two serpents there, entwined about each other,
And gliding, after a while, to hiding-places
In the dark woods. Now as before, they never
Hurt men, nor fear them, for they both remember
What once they were; they are most gentle serpents.
They had one comfort in their changed condition:
India, conquered, worshipped Bacchus; Greece
Thronged to his temples. King Acrisius only,
[page 101]
Of the same stock, still kept him out of Argos,
Took arms against the god, would not admit him
The son of Jove. Nor would he grant that Perseus
Was also son of Jove, the child begotten
On Danae in the golden rain. But truth
Is powerful: Acrisius learned repentance
For his attack on the god, and his denial
Of his own grandson. Bacchus was in Heaven,
But Perseus, bringing back the wondrous trophy
Of the snake-haired monster, through thin air was cleaving
His way on whirring wings. As he flew over
The Libyan sands, drops from the Gorgon's head
Fell bloody on the ground, and earth received them
Turning them into vipers. For this reason
Libya, today, is full of deadly serpents.
From there he drove through space, the warring winds
Bearing him every way, as a squall is driven.
>From his great height he looked on lands outspread
Far, far below; he flew the whole world over,
Saw the cold Bears, three times, and saw the Crab
With curving claws, three times, whirled often eastward,
Whirled often to the west. As the day ended,
Fearful of night, he came down for a landing
On the West's edge, the realm of Atlas, seeking
A little rest, till the Morning-star should waken
The fires of dawn, and Dawn lead out the chariot
Of the new day. Atlas, Iapetus' offspring,
Loomed over all men in his great bulk of body.
He ruled this land and the sea whose waters take
The Sun's tired horses and the weary wheels
At the long day's end. He had a thousand herds,
No neighbors, and he had a tree, all shining
With gold, whose golden leaves hid golden branches,
Whose golden branches hung with golden apples.
Perseus greeted Atlas: "If the glory
[page 102]
Of lofty birth has any meaning for you,
I am the son of Jove; if you prefer
To wonder at great deeds, you will find that mine
Are very wonderful. I ask for rest,
For friendly shelter." But Atlas, doubtful,
Thought of an ancient oracle of Themis:
Atlas, the time will come when your tree loses
Its gold, and the marauder is Jove's son.
Fearful of this, Atlas had walled his orchard,
Given its keeping to a monstrous dragon,
And kept all strangers off. He answered Perseus:
"Get out of here, you liar! Neither Jove
Nor glory gets you entrance here." He added
A lusty shove, though Perseus resisted,
Argued, and tried appeasement. But at last,
Inferior in strength (for who could equal
The strength of Atlas?), he told the giant:
"Well, anyway, since you will give me nothing,
I have something here for you!" He turned his back,
Held up, with his left hand behind his body,
Medusa's terrible head, and, big as he was,
Atlas was all at once a mountain: beard
And hair were forests, and his arms and shoulders
Were mountain-ridges; what had been his head
Was the peak of the mountain, and his bones were boulders.
But still he grew, for so the gods had willed it,
And his great bulk upheld the starry Heaven.
And Aeolus by now had closed the winds
In their eternal prison; the bright star
That wakes men to their toil, had risen brightly
In the clear morning air, and Perseus fastened
His winged sandals to his feet, took up
The scimitar, and soared aloft. Below him
Lay many lands, and finally he saw
The Ethiopians, King Cepheus' people.
[page 103]
There the god Ammon, not without injustice,
Ordered a daughter, who had not deserved it,
To pay the penalty for her mother's talking,
And Perseus saw her there, Andromeda,
Bound by the arms to the rough rocks; her hair,
Stirred in a gentle breeze, and her warm tears flowing
Proved her not marble, as he thought, but woman.
She was beautiful, so much so that he almost
Forgot to move his wings. He came down to her
Saying: "My dear, the chains that ought to bind you
Are love-knots rather than shackles. May I ask you
Your name, your country, the reason for this bondage?"
At first she made no answer, too much the virgin
To speak to any man; she would have hidden
Her modest features with her hands, but could not
Since they were bound. Her eyes were free, and filling
With rising tears. And Perseus urged her, gently,
Not to seem too unwilling, but to tell him
What wrong she had done, if any; so, at last,
She gave her name, her country, adding further
How her mother had bragged too much about her beauty.
She had not told it all, when the sea roared
And over the sea a monster loomed and towered
Above the wave. She cried aloud. Her parents
Were near at hand, both grieving, but the mother
More justly so, and they brought no help with them,
Only the kind of tears and vain embraces
Proper on such occasions. This struck Perseus
As pretty futile. "There is time, and plenty,
For weeping, later," he told them, "but the moment
For help is very short. If I were here as suitor,
I, Perseus, son of Jove and Danae,
Conqueror of the snaky-headed Gorgon,
The daring flier through the winds of Heaven,
You would accept me, I think, before all others.
But to such great endowments I am trying
[page 104]
To add, with the gods' blessing, a greater service.
If I save her by my valor, do I have her?"
What could they say but Yes? They promised also
A kingdom as her dowry.
As a galley
Bears down, with all the sturdy sweating rowers
Driving it hard, so came the monster, thrusting
The water on both sides in a long billow.
A slinger from the cliff could almost hit him
When Perseus rose cloudward, and his shadow
Fell on the surface, and the monster, seeing
That shadow, raged against it. As an eagle
Sees, in open field, a serpent sunning
Its mottled back, comes swooping down upon it,
Grasps it behind its head, to miss the poison
Sent through the deadly fangs, and buries talons
In scaly neck, so Perseus came plunging
In his steep dive down air, attacked the monster
That roared as the right shoulder took the sword-blade
Up to the hilt. The wound hurt deep, the sea-beast
Reared, lashed, and dived, and thrashed, as a wild-boar does
When the hounds bay around him. Perseus rose
When the fangs struck, he poised, he sought for openings
Along the barnacled back along the sides,
At tapering fishy tail; the monster's vomit
Was blood and salty water. The winged sandals
Grew heavy from that spew, and Perseus dared not
Depend upon them further. He found a rock
Projecting out of the sea when the waves were still,
Hidden in storm. There he hung on, from there
He struck again, again, and the sword went deep
Into the vitals, and the shores re-echoed
To Heaven with applause. Father and mother,
Rejoicing, hail their son-in-law, the savior
Of all the house. The chains are loosened
>From the girl's arms, and she comes slowly forward,
[page 105]
The cause, and the reward, of all that labor.
Water is brought so that the victor may
Wash his hands clean of blood; before he washes,
Lest the hard sand injure the Gorgon's head,
He makes it soft with leaves, and over them
Strews sea-weed for a cover, and puts down
Medusa's head. And the twigs, all fresh and pliant,
Absorb another force, harden and stiffen
In branch and leaves. The sea-nymphs test the wonder
With other boughs, and the same wonder happens
To their delight, and they use the twigs as seedlings,
Strewing them over the water, and even now
Such is the nature of coral, that it hardens,
Exposed to air, a vine below the surface.
Now Perseus built three altars to three gods,
The left for Mercury, the right for Pallas,
The central one for Jove, and sacrificed
Heifer and bull and yearling steer. He wanted
No dowry save Andromeda in payment
Of his reward. And Love and Hymen shook
The marriage-torches, fires fed fat on incense,
Glowing and fragrant, and the garlands hung
Down from the timbers, and the lyre and flute
And song made music, proof of happy spirits.
Great doors swung open, and the golden halls
Were set for splendid banqueting, and courtiers
Came thronging to the tables.
So they feasted
And took their fill of wine, and all were happy,
And Perseus asked them questions about the region,
People and customs and the native spirit.
They told him, and they asked in turn: "Now tell us,
Heroic Perseus, how you slew the Gorgon."
He told them how there lay, beneath cold Atlas,
A place protected by the bulk of the mountain
[page 106]
Where dwelt twin sisters, daughters, both, of Phorcys.
They had one eye between them, and they shared it,
Passing it from one sister to the other,
And he contrived to steal it, being so handed,
And slipped away, going by trackless country,
Rough woods and jagged rocks, to the Gorgons' home.
On all sides, through the fields, along the highways,
He saw the forms of men and beasts, made stone
By one look at Medusa's face. He also
Had seen that face, but only in reflection
>From the bronze shield his left hand bore; he struck
While snakes and Gorgon both lay sunk in slumber,
Severed the head, and from that mother's bleeding
Were born the swift-winged Pegasus and his brother.
And he went on to tell them of his journeys,
His perils over land and sea, the stars
He had brushed on flying pinions. And they wanted
Still more, and someone asked him why Medusa,
Alone of all the sisters, was snaky-haired.
Their guest replied: "That, too, is a tale worth telling.
She was very lovely once, the hope of many
An envious suitor, and of all her beauties
Her hair most beautiful--at least I heard so
>From one who claimed he had seen her. One day Neptune
Found her and raped her, in Minerva's temple,
And the goddess turned away, and hid her eyes
Behind her shield, and, punishing the outrage
As it deserved, she changed her hair to serpents,
And even now, to frighten evil doers,
She carries on her breastplate metal vipers
To serve as awful warning of her vengeance."