The nymph led her son to the prophet's cave, and concealed him
among the recesses of the rocks, while she herself took her place
behind the clouds. Then noon came and the hour when men and
herds retreat from the glaring sun to indulge in quiet slumber,
Proteus issued from the water, followed hy his herd of sea-
calves, which spread themselves along the shore. He sat on the
rock and counted his herd; then stretched himself on the floor of
the cave and went to sleep. Aristaeus hardly allowed him to get
fairly asleep before he fixed the fetters on him and shouted
aloud. Proteus, waking and finding himself captured, immediately
resorted to his arts, becoming first a fire, then a flood, then a
horrible wild beast, in rapid succession. But trying all in
vain, he at last resumed his own form and addressed the youth in
angry accents: "Who are you, bold youth, who thus invade my
abode, and what do you want with me?" Aristaeus replied,
"Proteus, you know already, for it is needless for any one to
attempt to deceive you. And do you also cease your efforts to
elude me. I am led hither by divine assistance, to know from you
the cause of my misfortune and how to remedy it." At these words
the prophet, fixing on him his gray eyes with a piercing look,
thus spoke: "You received the merited reward of your deeds, by
which Eurydice met her death, for in flying from you she trod
upon a serpent, of whose bite she died. To avenge her death the
nymphs, her companions, have sent this destruction bo your bees.
You have to appease their anger, and thus it must be done: Select
four bulls of perfect form and size, and four cows of equal
beauty, build four altars to the nymphs, and sacrifice the
animals, leaving their carcasses in the leafy grove. To Orpheus
and Eurydice you shall pay such funeral honors as may allay their
resentment. Returning after nine days you will examine the
bodies of the cattle slain and see what will befall." Aristaeus
faithfully obeyed these directions. He sacrificed the cattle, he
left their bodies in the grove, he offered funeral honors to the
shades of Orpheus and Eurydice; then returning on the ninth day
he examined the bodies of the animals, and, wonderful to relate!
A swarm of bees had taken possession of one of the carcasses, and
were pursuing their labors there as in a hive.
In the Task, Cowper alludes to the story of Aristaeus, when
speaking of the ice-palace built by the Empress Anne of Russia.
He has been describing the fantastic forms which ice assumes in
connection with waterfalls, etc."
"Less worthy of applause though more admired,
Because a novelty, the work of man,
Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ,
Thy most magnificent and mighty freak,
The wonder of the north. No forest fell
When thou wouldst build, no quarry sent its stores
T'enrich thy walls; but thou didst hew the floods
And make thy marble of the glassy wave.
In such a palace Aristaeus found
Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale
Of his lost bees to her maternal ear."
Milton also appears to have had Cyrene and her domestic scene in
his mind when he describes to us Sabrina, the nymph of the river
Severn, in the Guardian-spirit's Song in Comus:
"Sabrina fair!
Listen when thou art sitting
Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave
In twisted braids of lilies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair;
Listen for dear honor's sake,
Goddess of the silver lake!
Listen and save."
The following are other celebrated mythical poets and musicians,
some of whom were hardly inferior to Orpheus himself:
AMPHION
Amphion was the son of Jupiter and Antiope, queen of Thebes.
With his twin brother Zethus he was exposed at birth on Mount
Cithaeron, where they grew up among the shepherds, not knowing
their parentage. Mercury gave Amphion a lyre, and taught him to
play upon it, and his brother occupied himself in hunting and
tending the flocks. Meanwhile Antiope, their mother, who had
been treated with great cruelty by Lycus, the usurping king of
Thebes, and by Dirce, his wife, found means to inform her
children of their rights, and to summon them to her assistance.
With a band of their fellow-herdsmen they attacked and slew
Lycus, and tying Dirce by the hair of her head to a bull, let him
drag her till she was dead (the punishment of Dirce is the
subject of a celebrated group of statuary now in the Museum at
Naples). Amphion, having become king of Thebes fortified the
city with a wall. It is said that when he played on his lyre the
stones moved of their own accord and took their places in the
wall.
In Tennyson's poem of Amphion is an amusing use of this story:
"Oh, had I lived when song was great,
In days of old Amphion,
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate
Nor feared for reed or scion!
And had I lived when song was great,
And legs of trees were limber,
And ta'en my fiddle to the gate,
And fiddled to the timber!
"'Tis said he had a tuneful tongue,
Such happy intonation,
Wherever he sat down and sung
He left a small plantation;
Whenever in a lonely grove
He set up his forlorn pipes,
The gouty oak began to move
And flounder into hornpipes."
LINUS
Linus was the instructor of Hercules in music, but having one day
reproved his pupil rather harshly, he roused the anger of
Hercules, who struck him with his lyre and killed him.
THAMYRIS
An ancient Thracian bard, who in his presumption challenged the
Muses to a trial of skill, and being overcome in the contest was
deprived by them of his sight. Milton alludes to him with other
blind bards, when speaking of his own blindness (Paradise Lost,
Book III.35).
MARSYAS
Minerva invented the flute, and played upon it to the delight of
all the celestial auditors; but the mischievous urchin Cupid
having dared to laugh at the queer face which the goddess made
while playing, Minerva threw the instrument indignantly away, and
it fell down to earth, and was found by Marsyas. He blew upon
it, and drew from it such ravishing sounds that he was tempted to
challenge Apollo himself to a musical contest. The god of course
triumphed, and punished Marsyas by flaying him alive.
MELAMPUS
Melampus was the first mortal endowed with prophetic powers.
Before his house there stood an oak tree containing a serpent's
nest. The old serpents were killed by the servants, but Melampus
took care of the young ones and fed them carefully. One day when
he was asleep under the oak, the serpents licked his ears with
their tongues. On awaking he was astonished to find that he now
understood the language of birds and creeping things. This
knowledge enabled him to foretell future events, and he became a
renowned soothsayer. At one time his enemies took him captive
and kept him strictly imprisoned. Melampus in the silence of
night heard the wood-worms in the timbers talking together, and
found out by what they said that the timbers were nearly eaten
through, and the roof would soon fall in. He told his captors
and demanded to be let out, warning them also. They took his
warning, and thus escaped destruction, and rewarded Malampus and
held him in high honor.
MUSAEUS
A semi-mythological personage who was represented by one
tradition to be the son of Orpheus. He is said to have written
sacred poems and oracles. Milton couples his name with that of
Orpheus in his Il Penseroso:
"But, oh, sad virgin, that thy power
Might raise Musaeus from his bower,
Or bed the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes as warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made Hell grant what love did seek."
Chapter XVIII
Arion. Ibycus. Simonides. Sappho
The poets whose adventures compose this chapter were real
persons, some of whose works yet remain, and their influence on
poets who succeeded them is yet more important than their
poetical remains. The adventures recorded of them in the
following stories rest on the same authority as other narratives
of the Age of Fable, that is, that of the poets who have told
them. In their present form, the first two are translated from
the German, the story of Arion from Schlegel, and that of Ibycus
from Schiller.
ARION
Arion was a famous musician, and dwelt at the court of Periander,
king of Corinth, with whom he was a great favorite. There was to
be a musical contest in Sicily, and Arion longed to compete for
the prize. He told his wish to Periander, who besought him like
a brother to give up the thought. "Pray stay with me," he said,
"and be contented. He who strives to win may lose." Arion
answered, "A wandering life best suits the free heart of a poet.
The talent which a god bestowed on me, I would fain make a source
of pleasure to others. And if I win the prize, how will the
enjoyment of it be increased by the consciousness of my wide-
spread fame!" He went, won the prize, and embarked with his
wealth in a Corinthian ship for home. On the second morning
after setting sail, the wind breathed mild and fair. "Oh,
Periander," he exclaimed, "dismiss your fears! Soon shall you
forget them in my embrace. With what lavish offerings will we
display our gratitude to the gods, and how merry will we be at
the festal board!" The wind and sea continued propitious. Not a
cloud dimmed the firmament. He had not trusted too much to the
ocean, but he had to man. He overheard the seamen exchanging
hints with one another, and found they were plotting to possess
themselves of his treasure. Presently they surrounded him loud
and mutinous, and said, "Arion, you must die! If you would have
a grave on shore, yield yourself to die on this spot; but if
otherwise, cast yourself into the sea." "Will nothing satisfy
you but my life?" said he. "Take my gold, and welcome. I
willingly buy my life at that price." "No, no; we cannot spare
you. Your life will be too dangerous to us. Where could we go
to escape from Periander, if he should know that you had been
robbed by us? Your gold would be of little use to us, if, on
returning home, we could never more be free from fear." "Grant
me, then," said he, "a last request, since nought will avail to
save my life, that I may die as I have lived, as becomes a bard.
When I shall have sung my death-song, and my harp-strings shall
cease to vibrate, then I will bid farewell to life, and yield
uncomplaining to my fate." This prayer, like the others, would
have been unheeded, they thought only of their booty, but to
hear so famous a musician, that moved their rude hearts. "Suffer
me," he added, "to arrange my dress. Apollo will not favor me
unless I be clad in my minstrel garb."
He clothed his well-proportioned limbs in gold and purple fair to
see, his tunic fell around him in graceful folds, jewels adorned
his arms, his brow was crowned with a golden wreath, and over his
neck and shoulders flowed his hair perfumed with odors. His left
hand held the lyre, his right the ivory wand with which he struck
its chords. Like one inspired, he seemed to drink the morning
air and glitter in the morning ray. The seamen gazed with
admiration. He strode forward to the vessel's side and looked
down into the blue sea. Addressing his lyre, he sang, "Companion
of my voice, come with me to the realm of shades. Though
Cerberus may growl, we know the power of song can tame his rage.
Ye heroes of Elysium, who have passed the darkling flood, ye
happy souls, soon shall I join your band. Yet can ye relieve my
grief? Alas, I leave my friend behind me. Thou, who didst find
thy Eurydice, and lose her again as soon as found; when she had
vanished like a dream, how didst thou hate the cheerful light! I
must away, but I will not fear. The gods look down upon us. Ye
who slay me unoffending, when I am no more, your time of
trembling shall come. Ye Nereids, receive your guest, who throws
himself upon your mercy!" So saying, he sprang into the deep
sea. The waves covered him, and the seamen held on their way,
fancying themselves safe from all danger of detection.
But the strains of his music had drawn round him the inhabitants
of the deep to listen, and dolphins followed the ship as if
chained by a spell. While he struggled in the waves, a dolphin
offered him his back, and carried him mounted thereon safe to
shore. At the spot where he landed, a monument of brass was
afterwards erected upon the rocky shore, to preserve the memory
of the event.
When Arion and the dolphin parted, each to his own element, Arion
thus poured forth his thanks. "Farewell, thou faithful, friendly
fish! Would that I could reward thee; but thou canst not wend
with me, nor I with thee. Companionship we may not have. May
Galatea, queen of the deep, accord thee her favor, and thou,
proud of the burden, draw her chariot over the smooth mirror of
the deep."
Arion hastened from the shore, and soon saw before him the towers
of Corinth. He journeyed on, harp in hand, singing as he went,
full of love and happiness, forgetting his losses, and mindful
only of what remained, his friend and his lyre. He entered the
hospitable halls, and was soon clasped in the embrace of
Periander. "I come back to thee, my friend," he said. "The
talent which a god bestowed has been the delight of thousands,
but false knaves have stripped me of my well-earned treasure; yet
I retain the consciousness of wide-spread fame." Then he told
Periander all the wonderful events that had befallen him, who
heard him with amazement. "Shall such wickedness triumph?" said
he. "Then in vain is power lodged in my hands. That we may
discover the criminals, you must remain here in concealment, and
so they will approach without suspicion." When the ship arrived
in the harbor, he summoned the mariners before him. "Have you
heard anything of Arion?" he inquired. "I anxiously look for his
return." They replied, "We left him well and prosperous in
Tarentum." As they said these words, Arion stepped forth and
faced them. His well proportioned limbs were arrayed in gold and
purple fair to see, his tunic fell around him in graceful folds,
jewels adorned his arms, his brow was crowned with a golden
wreath, and over his neck and shoulders flowed his hair perfumed
with odors; his left hand held the lyre, his right the ivory wand
with which he struck its chords. They fell prostrate at his
feet, as if a lightning bolt had struck them. "We meant to
murder him, and he has become a god. O Earth, open and receive
us!" Then Periander spoke. "He lives, the master of the lay!
Kind Heaven protects the poet's life. As for you, I invoke not
the spirit of vengeance; Arion wishes not your blood. Ye slaves
of avarice, begone! Seek some barbarous land, and never may
aught beautiful delight your souls!"
Spencer represents Arion, mounted on his dolphin, accompanying
the train of Neptune and Amphitrite:
"Then was there heard a most celestial sound
Of dainty music which did next ensue,
And, on the floating waters as enthroned,
Arion with his harp unto him drew
The ears and hearts of all that goodly crew;
Even when as yet the dolphin which him bore
Through the Aegean Seas from pirates' view,
Stood still, by him astonished at his love,
And all the raging seas for joy forgot to roar."
Byron, in his Childe Harold, Canto II., alludes to the story of
Arion, when, describing his voyage, he represents one of the
seamen making music to entertain the rest:
"The moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve!
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand;
Now lads on shore may sigh and maids believe;
Such be our fate when we return to land!
Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love;
A circle there of merry listeners stand,
Or to some well-known measure featly move
Thoughtless as if on shore they still were free to rove."
IBYCUS
In order to understand the story of Ibycus which follows, it is
necessary to remember, first, that the theatres of the ancients
were immense buildings providing seats for from ten to thirty
thousand spectators, and as they were used only on festal
occasions, and admission was free to all, they were usually
filled. They were without roofs and open to the sky, and the
performances were in the daytime. Secondly, the appalling
representation of the Furies is not exaggerated in the story. It
is recorded that AEschylus, the tragic poet, having on one
occasion represented the Furies in a chorus of fifty performers,
the terror of the spectators was such that many fainted and were
thrown into convulsions, and the magistrates forbade a like
representation for the future.
Ibycus, the pious poet, was on his way to the chariot races and
musical competitions held at the Isthmus of Corinth, which
attracted all of Grecian lineage. Apollo had bestowed on him the
gift of song, the honeyed lips of the poet, and he pursued his
way with lightsome step, full of the god. Already the towers of
Corinth crowning the height appeared in view, and he had entered
with pious awe the sacred grove of Neptune. No living object was
in sight, only a flock of cranes flew overhead, taking the same
course as himself in their migration to a southern clime. "Good
luck to you, ye friendly squadrons," he exclaimed, "my companions
from across the sea. I take your company for a good omen. We
come from far, and fly in search of hospitality. May both of us
meet that kind reception which shields the stranger guest from
harm!"
He paced briskly on, and soon was in the middle of the wood.
There suddenly, at a narrow pass, two robbers stepped forth and
barred his way. He must yield or fight. But his hand,
accustomed to the lyre and not to the strife of arms, sank
powerless. He called for help on men and gods, but his cry
reached no defender's ear. "Then here must I die," said he, "in
a strange land, unlamented, cut off by the hand of outlaws, and
see none to avenge my cause." Sore wounded he sank to the earth,
when hoarse screamed the cranes overhead. "Take up my cause, ye
cranes," he said, "since no voice but yours answers to my cry."
So saying, he closed his eyes in death.
The body, despoiled and mangled, was found, and though disfigured
with wounds, was recognized by the friend in Corinth who had
expected him as a guest. "Is it thus I find you restored to me?"
he exclaimed; "I who hoped to entwine your temples with the
wreath of triumph in the strife of song!"
The guests assembled at the festival heard the tidings with
dismay. All Greece felt the wound, every heart owned its loss.
They crowded round the tribunal of the magistrates, and demanded
vengeance on the murderers and expiation with their blood.
But what trace or mark shall point out the perpetrator from
amidst the vast multitude attracted by the splendor of the feat?
Did he fall by the hands of robbers, or did some private enemy
slay him? The all-discerning sun alone can tell, for no other
eye beheld it. Yet not improbably the murderer even now walks in
the midst of the throng, and enjoys the fruits of his crime,
while vengeance seeks for him in vain. Perhaps in their own
temple's enclosure he defies the gods, mingling freely in this
throng of men that now presses into the ampitheatre.
For now crowded together, row on row, the multitude fill the
seats till it seems as if the very fabric would give way. The
murmur of voices sounds like the roar of the sea, while the
circles widening in their ascent rise, tier on tier, as if they
would reach the sky.
And now the vast assemblage listens to the awful voice of the
chorus personating the Furies, which in solemn guise advances
with measured step, and moves around the circuit of the theatre.
Can they be mortal women who compose that awful group, and can
that vast concourse of silent forms be living beings!
The choristers, clad in black, bore in their fleshless hands
torches blazing with a pitchy flame. Their cheeks were
bloodless, and in place of hair, writing and swelling serpents
curled around their brows. Forming a circle, these awful beings
sang their hymn, rending the hearts of the guilty, and enchaining
all their faculties. It rose and swelled, overpowering the sound
of the instruments, stealing the judgment, palsying the heart,
curdling the blood.
"Happy the man who keeps his heart pure from guilt and crime!
Him we avengers touch not; he treads the path of life secure from
us. But woe! Woe! To him who has done the deed of secret
murder. We, the fearful family of Night, fasten ourselves upon
his whole being. Thinks he by flight to escape us? We fly still
faster in pursuit, twine our snakes around his feet and bring him
to the ground. Unwearied we pursue; no pity checks our course;
still on and on to the end of life, we give him no peace nor
rest." Thus the Eumenides sang, and moved in solemn cadence,
while stillness like the stillness of death sat over the whole
assembly as if in the presence of superhuman beings; and then in
solemn march completing the circuit of the theatre, they passed
out at the back of the stage.
Every heart fluttered between illusion and reality, and every
breast panted with undefined terror, quailing before the awful
power that watches secret crimes and winds unseen the skein of
destiny. At that moment a cry burst forth from one of the
uppermost benches "Look! Look! Comrade, yonder are the cranes
of Ibycus!" And suddenly there appeared sailing across the sky a
dark object which a moment's inspection showed to be a flock of
cranes flying directly over the theatre. "Of Ibycus! did he
say?" The beloved name revived the sorrow in every breast. As
wave follows wave over the face of the sea, so ran from mouth to
mouth the words, "Of Ibycus! Him whom we all lament, with some
murderer's hand laid low! What have the cranes to do with him?"
And louder grew the swell of voices, while like a lightning's
flash the thought sped through every heart, "Observe the power of
the Eumenides! The pious poet shall be avenged! The murderer
has informed against himself. Seize the man who uttered that cry
and the other to whom he spoke!"
The culprit would gladly have recalled his words, but it was too
late. The faces of the murderers pale with terror betrayed their
guilt. The people took them before the judge, they confessed
their crime and suffered the punishment they deserved.
SIMONIDES
Simonides was one of the most prolific of the early poets of
Greece, but only a few fragments of his compositions have
descended to us. He wrote hymns, triumphal odes, and elegies.
In the last species of composition he particularly excelled. His
genius was inclined to the pathetic, and none could touch with
truer effect the chords of human sympathy. The Lamentation of
Danae, the most important of the fragments which remain of his
poetry is based upon the tradition that Danae and her infant son
were confined by order of her father Acrisius in a chest and set
adrift on the sea. The chest floated towards the island of
Seriphus, where both were rescued by Dictys, a fisherman, and
carried to Polydectes, king of the country, who received and
protected them. The child Perseus when grown up became a famous
hero, whose adventures have been recorded in a previous chapter.
Simonides passed much of his life at the courts of princes, and
often employed his talents in panegyric and festal odes,
receiving his reward from the munificence of those whose exploits
he celebrated. This employment was not derogatory, but closely
resembles that of the earliest bards, such as Demodocus,
described by Homer, or of Homer himself as recorded by tradition.
On one occasion when residing at the court of Scopas, king of
Thessaly, the prince desired him to prepare a poem in celebration
of his exploits, to be recited at a banquet. In order to
diversify his theme, Simonides, who was celebrated for his piety,
introduced into his poem the exploits of Castor and Pollux. Such
digressions were not unusual with the poets on similar occasions,
and one might suppose an ordinary mortal might have been content
to share the praises of the sons of Leda. But vanity is
exacting; and as Scopas sat at his festal board among his
courtiers and sycophants, he grudged every verse that did not
rehearse his own praises. When Simonides approached to receive
the promised reward Scopas bestowed but half the expected sum,
saying, "Here is payment for my portion of the performance,
Castor and Pollux will doubtless compensate thee for so much as
relates to them." The disconcerted poet returned to his seat
amidst the laughter which followed the great man's jest. In a
little time he received a message that two young men on horseback
were waiting without and anxious to see him. Simonides hastened
to the door, but looked in vain for the visitors. Scarcely
however had he left the banqueting-hall when the roof fell in
with a loud crash, burying Scopas and all his guests beneath the
ruins. On inquiring as to the appearance of the young men who
had sent for him, Simonides was satisfied that they were no other
than Castor and Pollux themselves.
Sappho
Sappho was a poetess who flourished in a very early age of Greek
literature. Of her works few fragments remain, but they are
enough to establish her claim to eminent poetical genius. The
story of Sappho commonly alluded to is that she was passionately
in love with a beautiful youth named Phaon, and failing to obtain
a return of affection she threw herself from the promontory of
Leucadia into the sea, under a superstition that those who should
take that "Lover's-leap," would, if not destroyed, be cured of
their love.
Byron alludes to the story of Sappho in Childe Harold, Canto II.:
Those who wish to know more of Sappho and her leap, are referred
to the Spectator, Nos. 223 and 229, and also to Moore's Evenings
in Greece.
Chapter XIX
Endymion. Orion. Aurora and Tithonus. Acis and Galatea
Endymion was a beautiful youth who fed his flock on Mount Latmos.
One calm, clear night, Diana, the Moon, looked down and saw him
sleeping. The cold heart of the virgin goddess was warmed by his
surpassing beauty, and she came down to him, kissed him, and
watched over him while he slept.
Another story was that Jupiter bestowed on him the gift of
perpetual youth united with perpetual sleep. Of one so gifted we
can have but few adventures to record. Diana, it was said, took
care that his fortunes should not suffer by his inactive life,
for she made his flock increase, and guarded his sheep and lambs
from the wild beasts.
The story of Endymion has a peculiar charm from the human meaning
which it so thinly veils. We see in Endymion the young poet, his
fancy and his heart seeking in vain for that which can satisfy
them, finding his favorite hour in the quiet moonlight, and
nursing there beneath the beams of the bright and silent witness
the melancholy and the ardor which consumes him. The story
suggests aspiring and poetic love, a life spent more in dreams
than in reality, and an early and welcome death.
S. G. Bulfinch
The Endymion of Keats is a wild and fanciful poem, containing
some exquisite poetry, as this, to the moon:
"The sleeping kine
Couched in thy brightness dream of fields divine.
Innumerable mountains rise, and rise,
Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes,
And yet thy benediction passeth not
One obscure hiding place, one little spot
Where pleasure may be sent; the nested wren
Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken."
Dr. Young in the Night Thoughts alludes to Endymion thus:
"These thoughts, O Night, are thine;
From thee they came like lovers' secret sighs,
While others slept. So Cynthia, poets feign,
In shadows veiled, soft, sliding from her sphere,
Her shepherd cheered, of her enamored less
Than I of thee."
Fletcher, in the Faithful Shepherdess, tells,
"How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove,
First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes
She took eternal fire that never dies;
How she conveyed him softly in a sleep,
His temples bound with poppy, to the steep
Head of Old Latmos, where she stoops each night,
Gilding the mountain with her brother's light,
To kiss her sweetest."
ORION
Orion was the son of Neptune. He was a handsome giant and a
mighty hunter. His father gave him the power of wading through
the depths of the sea, or as others say, of walking on its
surface.
Orion loved Merope, the daughter of Oenopion, king of Chios, and
sought her in marriage. He cleared the island of wild beasts,
and brought the spoils of the chase as presents to his beloved;
but as Oenopion constantly deferred his consent, Orion attempted
to gain possession of the maiden by violence. Her father,
incensed at this conduct, having made Orion drunk, deprived him
of his sight, and cast him out on the sea shore. The blinded
hero followed the sound of the Cyclops' hammer till he reached
Lemnos, and came to the forge of Vulcan, who, taking pity on him,
gave him Kedalion, one of his men, to be his guide to the abode
of the sun. Placing Kedalion on his shoulders, Orion proceeded
to the east, and there meeting the sun-god, was restored to sight
by his beam.
After this he dwelt as a hunter with Diana, with whom he was a
favorite, and it is even said she was about to marry him. Her
brother was highly displeased and often chid her, but to no
purpose. One day, observing Orion wading though the sea with his
head just above the water, Apollo pointed it out to his sister
and maintained that she could not hit that black thing on the
sea. The archer-goddess discharged a shaft with fatal aim. The
waves rolled the dead body of Orion to the land, and bewailing
her fatal error with many tears, Diana placed him among the
stars, where he appears as a giant, with a girdle, sword, lion's
skin, and club. Sirius, his dog, follows him, and the Pleiads
fly before him.
The Pleiads were daughters of Atlas, and nymphs of Diana's train.
One day Orion saw them, and became enamored, and pursued them.
In their distress they prayed to the gods to change their form,
and Jupiter in pity turned them into pigeons, and then made them
a constellation in the sky. Though their numbers was seven, only
six stars are visible, for Electra, one of them, it is said, left
her place that she might not behold the ruin of Troy, for that
city was founded by her son Dardanus. The sight had such an
effect on her sisters that they have looked pale ever since.
Mr. Longfellow has a poem on the "Occultation of Orion." The
following lines are those in which he alludes to the mythic
story. We must premise that on the celestial globe Orion is
represented as robed in a lion's skin and wielding a club. At
the moment the stars of the constellation one by one were
quenched in the light of the moon, the poet tells us,
"Down fell the red skin of the lion
Into the river at his feet.
His mighty club no longer beat
The forehead of the bull; but he
Reeled as of yore beside the sea,
When blinded by Oenopion
He sought the blacksmith at his forge,
And climbing up the narrow gorge,
Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun."
Tennyson has a different theory of the Pleiads:
"Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade,
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid."
Locksley Hall
Byron alludes to the lost Pleiad:
"Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below."
See also Mrs. Heman's verses on the same subject.
AURORA AND TITHONUS.
Aurora, the goddess of the Dawn, like her sister the Moon, was at
times inspired with the love of mortals. Her greatest favorite
was Tithonus, son of Laomedon, king of Troy. She stole him away,
and prevailed on Jupiter to grant him immortality; but forgetting
to have youth joined in the gift, after some time she began to
discern, to her great mortification, that he was growing old.
When his hair was quite white she left his society; but he still
had the range of her palace, lived on ambrosial food, and was
clad in celestial raiment. At length he lost the power of using
his limbs, and then she shut him up in his chamber, whence his
feeble voice might at times be heard. Finally she turned him
into a grasshopper.
Memnon was the son of aurora and Tithonus. He was king of the
AEthiopians, and dwelt in the extreme east, on the shore of
Ocean. He came with his warriors to assist the kindred of his
father in the war of Troy. King Priam received him with great
honors, and listened with admiration to his narrative of the
wonders of the ocean shore.
The very day after his arrival, Memnon, impatient of repose, led
his troops to the field. Antilochus, the brave son of Nestor,
fell by his hand, and the Greeks were put to flight, when
Achilles appeared and restored the battle. A long and doubtful
contest ensued between him and the son of Aurora; at length
victor declared for Achilles, Memnon fell, and the Trojans fled
in dismay.
Aurora, who, from her station in the sky, had viewed with
apprehension the danger of her son, when she saw him fall
directed his brothers, the Winds, to convey his body to the banks
of the river Esepus in Paphlagonia. In the evening Aurora came,
accompanied by the Hours and the Pleiads, and wept and lamented
over her son. Night, in sympathy with her grief, spread the
heaven with clouds; all nature mourned for the offspring of the
Dawn. The Aethiopians raised his tomb on the banks of the stream
in the grove of the nymphs, and Jupiter caused the sparks and
cinders of his funeral-pile to be turned into birds, which,
dividing into two flocks, fought over the pile till they fell
into the flame. Every year, at the anniversary of his death,
they return and celebrate his obsequies in like manner. Aurora
remains inconsolable for the loss of her son. Her tears still
flow, and may be seen at early morning in the form of dew-drops
on the grass.
Unlike most of the marvels of ancient mythology, there will exist
some memorials of this. On the banks of the river Nile, in
Egypt, are two colossal statues, one of which is said to be the
statue of Memnon. Ancient writers record that when the first
rays of the rising sun fall upon this statue, a sound is heard to
issue from it which they compare to the snapping of a harp-
string. There is some doubt about the identification of the
existing statue with the one described by the ancients, and the
mysterious sounds are still more doubtful. Yet there are not
wanting some modern testimonies to their being still audible. It
has been suggested that sounds produced by confined air making
its escape from crevices or caverns in the rocks may have given
some ground for the story. Sir Gardner Wilkinson, a late
traveller, of the highest authority, examined the statue itself,
and discovered that it was hollow, and that "in the lap of the
statue is a stone, which, on being struck, emits a metallic
sound, that might still be made use of to deceive a visitor who
was predisposed to believe its powers."
The vocal statue of Memnon is a favorite subject of allusion with
the poets. Darwin, in his Botanic Garden, says,
"So to the sacred Sun in Memnon's fane
Spontaneous concords choired the matin strain;
Touched by his orient beam responsive rings
The living lyre and vibrates all its strings;
Accordant aisles the tender tones prolong,
And holy echoes swell the adoring song."
ACIS AND GALATEA
Scylla was a fair virgin of Sicily, a favorite of the Sea-Nymphs.
She had many suitors, but repelled them all, and would go to the
grotto of Galatea, and tell her how she was persecuted. One day
the goddess, while Scylla dressed her hair, listened to the
story, and then replied, "Yet, maiden, your persecutors are of
the not ungentle race of men, whom if you will you can repel; but
I, the daughter of Nereus, and protected by such a band of
sisters, found no escape from the passion of the Cyclops but in
the depths of the sea;" and tears stopped her utterance, which
when the pitying maiden had wiped away with her delicate finger,
and soothed the goddess, "Tell me, dearest," said she, "the cause
of your grief." Galatea then said, "Acis was the son of Faunus
and a Naiad. His father and mother loved him dearly, but their
love was not equal to mine. For the beautiful youth attached
himself to me alone, and he was just sixteen years old, the down
just beginning to darken his cheeks. As much as I sought his
society, so much did the cyclops seek mine; and if you ask me
whether my love for Acis or my hatred for Polyphemus was the
stronger, I cannot tell you; they were in equal measure. Oh,
Venus, how great is thy power! This fierce giant, the terror of
the woods, whom no hapless stranger escaped unharmed, who defied
even Jove himself, learned to feel what love was, and touched
with a passion for me, forgot his flocks and his well-stored
caverns. Then, for the first time, he began to take some care of
his appearance, and to try to make himself agreeable; he harrowed
those coarse locks of his with a comb, and mowed his beard with a
sickle, looked at his harsh features in the water, and composed
his countenance. His love of slaughter, his fierceness and
thirst of blood prevailed no more, and ships that touched at his
island went away in safety. He paced up and down the sea-shore,
imprinting huge tracks with his heavy tread, and, when weary, lay
tranquilly in his cave.
"There is a cliff which projects into the sea, which washes it on
either side. Thither one day the huge Cyclops ascended, and sat
down while his flocks spread themselves around. Laying down his
staff which would have served for a mast to hold a vessel's sail,
and taking his instrument, compacted of numerous pipes, he made
the hills and the waters echo the music of his song. I lay hid
under a rock, by the side of my beloved Acis, and listened to the
distant strain. It was full of extravagant praises of my beauty,
mingled with passionate reproaches of my coldness and cruelty.
"When he had finished he rose up, and like a raging bull, that
cannot stand still, wandered off into the woods. Acis and I
thought no more of him, till on a sudden he came to a spot which
gave him a view of us as we sat. 'I see you,' he exclaimed, 'and
I will make this the last of your love-meetings.' His voice was
a roar such as an angry Cyclops alone could utter. AEtna
trembled at the sound. I, overcome with terror, plunged into the
water. Acis turned and fled, crying, 'Save me, Galatea, save me,
my parents!" The Cyclops pursued him, and tearing a rock from
the side of the mountain hurled it at him. Though only a corner
of it touched him it overwhelmed him.
"All that fate left in my power I did for Acis. I endowed him
with the honors of his grandfather the river-god. The purple
blood flowed out from under the rock, but by degrees grew paler
and looked like the stream of a river rendered turbid by rains,
and in time it became clear. The rock cleaved open, and the
water, as it gushed from the chasm, uttered a pleasing murmur."
Thus Acis was changed into a river, and the river retains the name of Acis. |
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