Book 11

While Orpheus is singing to his lyre on Mount Rhodope, the women of Thrace celebrate their orgies. During that ceremony they take advantage of the opportunity to punish Orpheus for his indifference towards their sex; and, in the fury inspired by their rites, they beat him to death. His head and lyre are carried by the stream of the river Hebrus into the sea, and are cast on shore on the isle of Lesbos. A serpent, about to attack the head when thrown on shore, is changed into a stone, and the Bacchanals who have killed him are transformed into trees.

While Orpheus sings to his lyre on Mount Rhodope, the women of Thrace celebrate their orgies. During the ceremony, they seize the chance to punish Orpheus for his indifference to women. In the fury inspired by their rites, they beat him to death. The river Hebrus carries his head and lyre out to sea, and they wash ashore on the island of Lesbos. A serpent is about to attack the head on the shore when it is turned to stone. The Bacchanals who killed Orpheus are transformed into trees.

While with songs such as these, the Thracian poet is leading the woods and the natures of savage beasts, and the following rocks, lo! the matrons of the Ciconians, having their raving breasts covered with the skins of wild beasts, from the summit of a hill, espy Orpheus adapting his voice to the sounded strings of his harp. One of these, tossing her hair along the light breeze, says, “See! see! here is our contemner!” and hurls her spear at the melodious mouth of the bard of Apollo: but, being wreathed at the end with leaves, it makes a mark without any wound. The weapon of another is a stone, which, when thrown, is overpowered in the very air by the harmony of his voice and his lyre, and lies before his feet, a suppliant, as it were, for an attempt so daring.

With songs like these, the Thracian poet was leading the woods, the wild beasts, and the rocks that followed him. From a hilltop, the Ciconians’ women saw Orpheus singing to the strings of his harp. Their frenzied bodies were covered in wild beast skins. One woman tossed her hair in the light breeze and said, “Look! Look! Here is the man who scorns us!” She hurled her spear at the singing mouth of Apollo’s poet. But its tip was wrapped in leaves, so it left a mark without wounding him. Another woman threw a stone. In midair, it was overcome by the harmony of his voice and lyre. It fell at his feet, as if begging forgiveness for such a bold attack.

But still this rash warfare increases, and all moderation departs, and direful fury reigns triumphant. And yet all their weapons would have been conquered by his music; but the vast clamour, and the Berecynthian pipe⁹²⁸ with the blown horns, and the tambourines, and the clapping of hands, and Bacchanalian yells, prevented the sound of the lyre from being heard. Then, at last, the stones became red with the blood of the bard, now no longer heard. But first the Mænades lay hands on innumerable birds, even yet charmed with his voice as he sang, and serpents, and a throng of wild beasts, the glory of this audience of Orpheus; and after that, they turn upon Orpheus with blood-stained right hands; and they flock together, as the birds, if at any time they see the bird of night strolling about by day; and as when the stag that is doomed to die⁹²⁹ in the morning sand in the raised amphitheatre is a prey to the dogs; they both attack the bard, and hurl the thyrsi, covered with green leaves, not made for such purposes as these. Some throw clods, some branches torn from trees, others flint stones. And that weapons may not be wanting for their fury, by chance some oxen are turning up the earth with the depressed ploughshare; and not far from thence, some strong-armed peasants, providing the harvest with plenteous sweat, are digging the hard fields; they, seeing this frantic troop, run away, and leave the implements of their labour; and there lie, dispersed throughout the deserted fields, harrows and heavy rakes, and long spades.

But the reckless battle grows, and all restraint disappears. Terrible fury reigns triumphant. And yet his music would have overcome all their weapons. But the great uproar, the Berecynthian pipe⁹²⁸, the blaring horns, the tambourines, the clapping hands, and Bacchanalian cries drowned out the lyre. At last, the stones turned red with the blood of the bard, now silent. But first, the Mænades attack countless birds still charmed by his singing. They also attack serpents and the crowd of wild beasts that are the glory of this audience of Orpheus. Then they turn on Orpheus with bloodstained hands. They gather around him like birds that see a bird of night wandering by day. They attack the bard as dogs attack a stag doomed to die⁹²⁹ on the morning sands of the raised amphitheater. They hurl their thyrsi, covered in green leaves and never made for such a purpose. Some throw clods of earth, some branches torn from trees, and others flint stones. And so their fury does not lack weapons. By chance, some oxen are turning the earth with a lowered plowshare. Not far away, strong-armed peasants are digging the hard fields, sweating heavily to provide a harvest. When they see the frantic band, the peasants run away and leave their tools behind. Harrows, heavy rakes, and long spades lie scattered across the deserted fields.

After they, in their rage, have seized upon these, and have torn to pieces the oxen with their threatening horns, they return to the destruction of the bard; and they impiously murder him, extending his hands, and then for the first time uttering words in vain, and making no effect on them with his voice. And (Oh Jupiter!) through those lips listened to by rocks, and understood by the senses of wild beasts, his life breathed forth, departs into the breezes.⁹³⁰ The mournful birds, the crowd of wild beasts, the hard stones, the woods that oft had followed thy song bewailed thee. Trees, too, shedding their foliage, mourned thee, losing their leaves. They say, too, that rivers swelled with their own tears; and the Naiads and Dryads had mourning garments of dark colour, and dishevelled hair. The limbs lie scattered⁹³¹ in various places. Thou, Hebrus, dost receive the head and the lyre; and (wondrous to relate!) while it rolls down the midst of the stream, the lyre complains in I know not what kind of mournful strain. His lifeless tongue, too, utters a mournful sound, to which the banks mournfully reply. And now, borne onward to the sea, they leave their native stream, and reach the shores of Methymnæan Lesbos.⁹³² Here an infuriated serpent attacks the head thrown up on the foreign sands, and the hair besprinkled with the oozing blood. At last Phœbus comes to its aid, and drives it away as it tries to inflict its sting, and hardens the open jaws of the serpent into stone, and makes solid its gaping mouth just as it is. His ghost descends under the earth, and he recognizes all the spots which he has formerly seen; and seeking Eurydice through the fields of the blessed, he finds her, and enfolds her in his eager arms. Here, one while, they walk together side by side,⁹³³ and at another time he follows her as she goes before, and again at another time, walking in front, precedes her; and now, in safety, Orpheus looks back upon his own Eurydice.

In their rage, they seize them and tear apart the oxen with their threatening horns. Then they return to destroy the bard. He stretches out his hands and speaks, but for the first time his words are in vain. His voice has no effect on them, and they wickedly murder him. Oh Jupiter! His life breathes out into the air through those lips that rocks had listened to and wild beasts had understood.⁹³⁰ The sorrowful birds, the throng of wild beasts, the hard stones, and the woods that had often followed your song mourned you. The trees too mourned you, shedding their leaves. They say the rivers swelled with their own tears. The Naiads and Dryads wore dark mourning clothes and left their hair disheveled. His limbs lie scattered⁹³¹ in various places. Hebrus, you receive his head and lyre. And wonderfully, as the head rolls down the middle of the stream, the lyre plays a mournful tune I cannot describe. His lifeless tongue too makes a mournful sound, and the banks reply in sorrow. Carried onward to the sea, the head and lyre leave their native stream and reach the shores of Methymnæan Lesbos.⁹³² There, a furious serpent attacks the head, which has washed up on the foreign sands. Blood trickles through his hair. At last Phœbus comes to its aid. He drives the serpent away as it tries to strike. He turns its open jaws to stone, freezing its gaping mouth just as it is. His ghost descends beneath the earth, where he recognizes all the places he has seen before. He searches for Eurydice through the fields of the blessed, finds her, and gathers her in his eager arms. Here they sometimes walk side by side,⁹³³ and sometimes he follows her as she goes ahead. At other times he walks in front of her. Now Orpheus can safely look back at his own Eurydice.

Yet Lyæus did not suffer this wickedness to go unpunished; and grieving for the loss of the bard of his sacred rites, he immediately fastened down in the woods, by a twisting root, all the Edonian matrons who had committed this crime. For he drew out the toes of her feet, just as each one had pursued him, and thrust them by their sharp points into the solid earth. And, as when a bird has entangled its leg in a snare, which the cunning fowler has concealed, and perceives that it is held fast, it beats its wings, and, fluttering, tightens the noose with its struggles; so, as each one of these had stuck fast, fixed in the ground, in her alarm, she attempted flight in vain; but the pliant root held her fast, and confined her, springing forward⁹³⁴ to escape. And while she is looking where her toes are, where, too, are her feet and her nails, she sees wood growing up upon her well-turned legs. Endeavouring, too, to smite her thigh, with grieving right hand, she strikes solid oak; her breast, too, becomes oak; her shoulders are oak. You would suppose that her extended arms are real boughs, and you would not be deceived in so supposing.

Yet Lyæus did not let this wickedness go unpunished. Grieving for the loss of the bard of his sacred rites, he immediately rooted all the Edonian matrons who had committed the crime to the forest floor. As each woman had pursued him, Lyæus stretched out her toes and drove their sharp points into the solid earth. A bird may catch its leg in a snare hidden by a cunning birdcatcher. When the bird realizes it is trapped, it beats its wings and flutters, tightening the noose as it struggles. So each woman, stuck fast in the ground, tried in alarm to flee. But her efforts were in vain. As she sprang forward⁹³⁴ to escape, the flexible root held her fast and restrained her. As she looks for her toes, her feet, and her nails, she sees wood growing over her shapely legs. In grief, she tries to strike her thigh with her right hand, but hits solid oak. Her breast becomes oak, and so do her shoulders. You would think her outstretched arms were real branches, and you would be right.

Bacchus, having punished the Thracian women for the murder of Orpheus, leaves Thrace. His tutor, Silenus, having become intoxicated, loses his companions, and is brought by some Phrygian peasants to Midas. He sends him to Bacchus, on which the God, in acknowledgment of his kindness, promises him whatever favour he may desire. Midas asks to be able to turn everything that he touches into gold. This power is granted; but, soon convinced of his folly, Midas begs the God to deprive him of it, on which he is ordered to bathe in the river Pactolus. He obeys the God, and communicates the power which he possesses to the stream; from which time that river has golden sands.

After punishing the Thracian women for murdering Orpheus, Bacchus leaves Thrace. His tutor, Silenus, gets drunk and loses his companions. Some Phrygian peasants find Silenus and bring him to Midas, who sends him to Bacchus. To thank Midas for his kindness, the god promises to grant him any favor he wishes. Midas asks for the power to turn everything he touches into gold. Bacchus grants his wish, but Midas soon realizes how foolish he has been. He begs the god to take the power away. Bacchus tells him to bathe in the river Pactolus. Midas obeys and passes his power to the river. From that time on, the river has golden sands.

And this is not enough for Bacchus. He resolves to forsake the country itself, and, with a superior train, he repairs to the vineyards of his own Tymolus, and Pactolus; although it was not golden at that time, nor to be coveted for its precious sands. The usual throng, both Satyrs and Bacchanals, surround him, but Silenus is away. The Phrygian rustics took him, as he was staggering with age and wine, and, bound with garlands, they led him to their king, Midas, to whom, together with the Cecropian Eumolpus,⁹³⁵ the Thracian Orpheus had intrusted the mysterious orgies of Bacchus. Soon as he recognized this associate and companion of these rites, he hospitably kept a festival on the coming of this guest, for twice five days, and as many nights joined in succession.

But this was not enough for Bacchus. He decided to leave the country and, with a grander procession, went to the vineyards of his own Tymolus and Pactolus. At that time, Pactolus was not golden, and its sands were not yet prized for their precious gold. The usual crowd of both Satyrs and Bacchanals surrounded him, but Silenus was missing. Phrygian rustics had found him staggering from age and wine. They bound him with garlands and led him to their king, Midas. The Thracian Orpheus had entrusted the mysterious orgies of Bacchus to Midas and the Cecropian Eumolpus.⁹³⁵ As soon as Midas recognized Silenus as a fellow participant and companion in these rites, he welcomed him with a festival. It lasted ten days and ten successive nights.

“And now the eleventh Lucifer had closed the lofty host of the stars, when the king came rejoicing to the Lydian lands, and restored Silenus to the youth, his foster-child. To him the God, being glad at the recovery of his foster-father, gave the choice of desiring a favour, pleasing, indeed, but useless, as it turned out. He, destined to make a foolish use of the favour, says, ‘Cause that whatever I shall touch with my body shall be turned into yellow gold.’ Liber assents to his wish, and grants him the hurtful favour, and is grieved that he has not asked for something better. The Berecynthian hero⁹³⁶ departs joyful, and rejoices in his own misfortune, and tries the truth of his promise by touching everything. And, hardly believing himself, he pulls down a twig from a holm-oak, growing on a bough not lofty; the twig becomes gold. He takes up a stone from the ground; the stone, too, turns pale with gold. He touches a clod, also; by his potent touch the clod becomes a mass of gold. He plucks some dry ears of corn, that wheat is golden. He holds an apple taken from a tree, you would suppose that the Hesperides had given it. If he places his fingers upon the lofty door-posts, then the posts are seen to glisten. When, too, he has washed his hands in the liquid stream, the water flowing from his hands might have deceived Danaë. He scarcely can contain his own hopes in his mind, imagining everything to be of gold. As he is thus rejoicing, his servants set before him a table supplied with dainties, and not deficient in parched corn. But then, whether he touches the gifts of Ceres with his right hand, the gifts of Ceres, as gold, become hard; or if he attempts to bite the dainties with hungry teeth, those dainties, upon the application of his teeth, shine as yellow plates of gold. Bacchus, the grantor of this favour, he mingles with pure water; you could see liquid gold flowing through his jaws.

“And now the eleventh Lucifer had brought the great host of stars to an end. The king came rejoicing to the Lydian lands and restored Silenus to the youth he had raised. The God was glad to have his foster-father back and offered the king a favor of his choice. The favor was pleasing, indeed, but useless, as it turned out. The king, destined to use the favor foolishly, said, ‘Make whatever I touch with my body turn into yellow gold.’ Liber agreed to his wish and granted him the harmful favor. But he was sorry that the king had not asked for something better. The Berecynthian hero⁹³⁶ went away joyful, rejoicing in his own misfortune. He touched everything to test the truth of the promise. Hardly believing it himself, he pulled a twig from a low branch of a holm-oak. The twig became gold. He picked up a stone from the ground. The stone, too, turned pale with gold. He also touched a clod of earth. His powerful touch turned the clod into a mass of gold. He plucked some dry ears of corn. The wheat turned golden. He held an apple picked from a tree. You would have thought the Hesperides had given it to him. If he put his fingers on the tall doorposts, then the posts could be seen to gleam. When he washed his hands in a flowing stream, the water running from them might have deceived Danaë. He could hardly contain his hopes, imagining everything turned to gold. While he was thus rejoicing, his servants set a table before him. It was spread with delicacies and plenty of parched corn. But when he touched the gifts of Ceres with his right hand, they hardened into gold. If he tried to bite the delicacies with hungry teeth, they gleamed as yellow plates of gold. He mixed Bacchus, the giver of this favor, with pure water. You could see liquid gold flowing down his throat.”

“Astonished at the novelty of his misfortune, being both rich and wretched, he wishes to escape from his wealth, and now he hates what but so lately he has wished for; no plenty relieves his hunger, dry thirst parches his throat, and he is deservedly tormented by the now hated gold; and raising his hands towards heaven, and his shining arms, he says, “Grant me pardon, father Lenæus; I have done wrong, but have pity on me, I pray, and deliver me from this specious calamity!” Bacchus, the gentle Divinity among the Gods, restored him, as he confessed that he had done wrong, to his former state, and annulled his given promise, and the favour that was granted: “And that thou mayst not remain overlaid with thy gold, so unhappily desired, go,” said he, “to the river adjoining to great Sardis,⁹³⁷ and trace thy way, meeting the waters as they fall from the height of the mountain, until thou comest to the rise of the stream. And plunge thy head beneath the bubbling spring, where it bursts forth most abundantly, and at once purge thy body, at once thy crime.” The king placed himself beneath the waters prescribed; the golden virtue tinged the river, and departed from the human body into the stream. And even now, the fields, receiving the ore of this ancient vein of gold, are hard, growing of pallid colour, from their clods imbibing the gold.

“Astonished by his strange misfortune, he was both rich and miserable. He wished to escape his wealth and now hated what he had wanted so recently. All his abundance could not relieve his hunger, and thirst parched his throat. He was rightly tormented by the gold he now hated. Raising his hands and shining arms toward heaven, he said, “Forgive me, father Lenæus. I have done wrong, but please take pity on me and deliver me from this glittering calamity!” Bacchus, the gentle god, heard him confess his wrong and restored him to his former state. He canceled his promise and the gift he had granted. “So that you will not remain covered in the gold you so unhappily desired, go,” he said, “to the river near great Sardis.⁹³⁷ Follow it upstream, against the waters flowing down the mountain, until you reach its source. Plunge your head beneath the bubbling spring, where it flows most abundantly. Wash your body and your crime away at once.” The king went beneath the waters as instructed. The golden power colored the river, passing from his body into the stream. Even now, the fields receive the ore from this ancient vein of gold. Their clods soak up the gold, turning hard and pale.”

Pan is so elated with the praises of some Nymphs who hear the music of his pipe, that he presumes to challenge Apollo to play with him. The mountain God, Tmolus, who is chosen umpire of the contest, decides in favour of Apollo, and the whole company approve of his judgment except Midas, who, for his stupidity in preferring Pan, receives a pair of asses’ ears. He carefully conceals them till they are discovered by his barber, who publishes his deformity in a very singular manner.

Some Nymphs praise Pan’s pipe music, and he is so delighted that he dares to challenge Apollo to a musical contest. The mountain god Tmolus is chosen to judge the contest, and he declares Apollo the winner. Everyone agrees with his judgment except Midas. For his foolishness in preferring Pan, Midas is given a pair of donkey’s ears. He carefully hides them until his barber discovers them. The barber then reveals his deformity in a very unusual way.

He, abhorring riches, inhabited the woods and the fields, and followed Pan, who always dwells in caves of the mountains; but his obtuse understanding⁹³⁸ still remained, and the impulse of his foolish mind was fated again, as before, to be an injury to its owner. For the lofty Tmolus, looking far and wide over the sea, stands erect, steep with its lofty ascent; and extending in its descent on either side, is bounded on the one side by Sardis, on the other by the little Hypæpæ.

He hated riches and lived in the woods and fields. He followed Pan, who always lives in mountain caves. But he was still slow to understand,⁹³⁸ and his foolish impulses were fated to harm him again, as before. For the towering Tmolus rises steeply, overlooking the sea far and wide. Its slopes extend down on either side, bounded by Sardis on one side and little Hypæpæ on the other.

While Pan is there boasting of his strains to the charming Nymphs, and is warbling a little tune upon the reeds joined with wax, daring to despise the playing of Apollo in comparison with his own, he comes to the unequal contest under the arbitration of Tmolus.⁹³⁹ The aged umpire seats himself upon his own mountain, and frees his ears of the incumbering trees. His azure-coloured hair is only covered with oak, and acorns hang around his hollow temples. And looking at the God of the flocks, he says, “there is no delay in me, your umpire.” He sounds his rustic reeds, and delights Midas with his uncouth music; for he, by chance, is present as he plays. After this the sacred Tmolus turns his face towards the countenance of Apollo; his words follow the direction of his face. He, having his yellow head wreathed with Parnassian laurel, sweeps the ground with his robe, soaked in Tyrian purple,⁹⁴⁰ and supports with his left hand his lyre, adorned with gems and Indian ivory; the other hand holds the plectrum. The very posture is that of an artist. He then touches the strings with a skilful thumb; charmed by the sweetness of which, Tmolus bids Pan to hold his reeds in submission to the lyre; and the judgment and decision of the sacred mountain pleases them all. Yet it is blamed, and is called unjust by the voice of Midas alone. But the Delian God does not allow his stupid ears to retain their human shape: but draws them out to a great length, and he fills them with grey hairs, and makes them unsteady at the lower part, and gives them the power of moving. The rest of his body is that of a man; in one part alone is he condemned to punishment; and he assumes the ears of the slowly moving ass.

Pan boasts to the charming Nymphs about his music, playing a little tune on reeds joined with wax. He dares to say that Apollo’s playing is inferior to his own. So he enters an uneven contest, with Tmolus as judge.⁹³⁹ The aged judge sits on his own mountain and clears the obstructing trees from his ears. Only oak covers his blue hair, and acorns hang around his hollow temples. Looking at the god of the flocks, he says, “Your judge is ready.” Pan plays his rustic reeds and delights Midas with his rough music. Midas happens to be present as Pan plays. Then sacred Tmolus turns toward Apollo and speaks to him. Apollo wears a wreath of Parnassian laurel on his golden head. His robe, dyed Tyrian purple,⁹⁴⁰ sweeps the ground. In his left hand he holds his lyre, decorated with gems and Indian ivory. His other hand holds the plectrum. His very posture shows him to be an artist. He touches the strings with a skillful thumb, and Tmolus is charmed by their sweetness. He tells Pan to bow to the lyre with his reeds. The sacred mountain’s judgment and decision pleases everyone. Only Midas criticizes it, calling it unjust. But the Delian god does not let Midas’s stupid ears keep their human shape. He stretches them to a great length, fills them with gray hair, and makes them loose at the base so they can move. The rest of his body remains human. He is punished in only one part, taking on the ears of a slow-moving donkey.

He, indeed, concealed them, and endeavoured to veil his temples, laden with this foul disgrace, with a purple turban. But a servant, who was wont to cut his hair, when long, with the steel scissars, saw it; who, when he did not dare disclose the disgraceful thing he had seen, though desirous to publish it, and yet could not keep it secret, retired, and dug up the ground, and disclosed, in a low voice, what kind of ears he had beheld on his master, and whispered it to the earth cast up. And then he buried this discovery of his voice with the earth thrown in again, and, having covered up the ditch, departed in silence.

He hid them, trying to cover his temples and their shameful burden with a purple turban. But a servant saw them when he cut his master's long hair with steel scissors, as he usually did. The servant wanted to tell others what he had seen, but he dared not reveal the disgraceful sight. Yet he could not keep it secret. So he went away and dug a hole in the ground. In a low voice, he whispered to the freshly dug earth what kind of ears he had seen on his master. Then he buried what he had revealed, filling in the hole. After covering it, he departed in silence.

There, a grove, thick set with quivering reeds, began to rise; and as soon as it came to maturity, after a complete year, it betrayed its planter. For, moved by the gentle South wind, it repeated the words there buried, and disclosed the ears of his master.

There, a grove of quivering reeds began to grow. After a full year, the grove matured and betrayed the man who had planted it. Stirred by the gentle south wind, the reeds repeated the words buried there and revealed his master's ears.

Apollo and Neptune build the walls of Troy for king Laomedon, who refuses to give the Gods the reward which he has promised: on which Neptune punishes his perjury by an inundation of his country. Laomedon is then obliged to expose his daughter to a sea monster, in order to appease the God. Hercules delivers her; and Laomedon defrauds him likewise of the horses which he has promised him. In revenge, Hercules plunders the city of Troy, and carries off Hesione, whom he gives in marriage to his companion Telamon.

Apollo and Neptune build the walls of Troy for King Laomedon, who refuses to pay the gods their promised reward. Neptune punishes him for breaking his promise by flooding his country. Laomedon must then offer his daughter to a sea monster to appease the god. Hercules saves her, but Laomedon also cheats him out of the horses he promised him. In revenge, Hercules plunders Troy and carries off Hesione. He gives her in marriage to his companion Telamon.

The son of Latona, having thus revenged himself, departs from Tmolus, and, borne through the liquid air, rests on the plains of Laomedon, on this side of the narrow sea of Helle, the daughter of Nephele. On the right hand of Sigæum and on the left of the lofty Rhœtæum,⁹⁴¹ there is an ancient altar dedicated to the Panomphæan⁹⁴² Thunderer. Thence, he sees Laomedon now first building the walls of rising Troy, and that this great undertaking is growing up with difficult labour, and requires no small resources. And then, with the trident-bearing father of the raging deep, he assumes a mortal form, and for the Phrygian king they build the walls,⁹⁴³ a sum of gold being agreed on for the defences.

The son of Latona, having thus taken his revenge, leaves Tmolus. Carried through the air, he comes to rest on the plains of Laomedon. The plains lie on this side of the narrow sea of Helle, the daughter of Nephele. Between Sigæum on the right and lofty Rhœtæum⁹⁴¹ on the left stands an ancient altar dedicated to the Panomphæan⁹⁴² Thunderer. From there, he sees Laomedon now beginning to build the walls of rising Troy. The great undertaking is progressing with difficult labor and requires considerable resources. Then he and the trident-bearing father of the raging deep take mortal form. They build the walls⁹⁴³ for the Phrygian king, having agreed on a sum of gold for the defenses.

The work is now finished; the king refuses the reward, and, as a completion of his perfidy, adds perjury to his false words. “Thou shalt not escape unpunished,” says the king of the sea; and he drives all his waters towards the shores of covetous Troy. He turns the land, too, into the form of the sea, and carries off the wealth of the husbandmen, and overwhelms the fields with waves. Nor is this punishment sufficient: the daughter of the king, is also demanded for a sea monster. Chained to the rugged rocks, Alcides delivers her, and demands the promised reward, the horses agreed upon; and the recompense of so great a service being denied him, he captures the twice-perjured walls of conquered Troy. Nor does Telamon, a sharer in the warfare, come off without honour; and he obtains Hesione, who is given to him.

The work is now finished, but the king refuses to pay the reward. To complete his treachery, he adds a broken oath to his false promises. “You shall not escape punishment,” says the king of the sea. He drives all his waters toward the shores of greedy Troy. He turns the land into a sea, carries off the farmers’ wealth, and floods the fields with waves. But this punishment is not enough. The king’s daughter is also demanded as a sacrifice to a sea monster. She is chained to the rugged rocks, but Alcides rescues her. He demands the promised reward, the horses they had agreed upon. When he is denied payment for such a great service, he conquers Troy and captures its twice-perjured walls. Telamon, who shares in the war, does not go without honor. Hesione is given to him.

But Peleus was distinguished by a Goddess for his wife; nor was he more proud of the name of his grandfather than that of his father-in-law.⁹⁴⁴ Since, not to his lot alone did it fall to be the grandson of Jove; to him alone, was a Goddess given for a wife.

But Peleus stood out because he had a goddess for a wife. He was no more proud of his grandfather’s name than of his father-in-law’s.⁹⁴⁴ Others besides Peleus were grandsons of Jove, but he alone was given a goddess as his wife.

Proteus foretells that Thetis shall have a son, who shall be more powerful than his father, and shall exceed him in valour. Jupiter, who is in love with Thetis, is alarmed at this prediction, and yields her to Peleus. The Goddess flies from his advances by assuming various shapes, till, by the advice of Proteus, he holds her fast, and then having married her, she bears Achilles. Peleus goes afterwards to Ceyx, king of Trachyn, to expiate the death of his brother Phocus, whom he has killed. Ceyx is in a profound melancholy, and tells him how his brother Dædalion, in the transports of his grief for his daughter Chione, who had been slain for vying with Diana, has been transformed into a hawk. During this relation, Peleus is informed that a wolf which Psamathe has sent to revenge the death of Phocus, is destroying his herds. He endeavours to avert the wrath of the Goddess, but she is deaf to his entreaties, till, by the intercession of Thetis, she is appeased, and she turns the wolf into stone.

Proteus predicts that Thetis will have a son who will be more powerful and valiant than his father. Jupiter, who loves Thetis, is alarmed by the prediction and gives her up to Peleus. The goddess escapes Peleus’s advances by taking various shapes. But on Proteus’s advice, Peleus holds her fast. He then marries her, and she gives birth to Achilles. Peleus later goes to Ceyx, king of Trachyn, to atone for killing his brother Phocus. Ceyx is deeply saddened and tells Peleus what happened to his brother Dædalion. Dædalion’s daughter Chione was killed for competing with Diana. Overcome with grief, Dædalion was transformed into a hawk. During this account, Peleus learns that a wolf is destroying his herds. Psamathe has sent the wolf to avenge Phocus’s death. Peleus tries to calm the goddess’s anger, but she refuses to listen to his pleas. At last, Thetis pleads with Psamathe, who relents and turns the wolf to stone.

For the aged Proteus had said to Thetis, “Goddess of the waves, conceive; thou shalt be the mother of a youth, who by his gallant actions shall surpass the deeds of his father, and shall be called greater than he.” Therefore, lest the world might contain something greater than Jove, although he had felt no gentle flame in his breast, Jupiter avoided the embraces of Thetis,⁹⁴⁵ the Goddess of the sea, and commanded his grandson, the son of Æacus,⁹⁴⁶ to succeed to his own pretensions, and rush into the embraces of the ocean maid. There is a bay of Hæmonia, curved into a bending arch; its arms project out; there, were the water but deeper, there would be a harbour, but the sea is just covering the surface of the sand. It has a firm shore, which retains not the impression of the foot, nor delays the step of the traveller, nor is covered with sea-weeds. There is a grove of myrtle at hand, planted with particoloured berries. In the middle there is a cave, whether formed by nature or art, it is doubtful; still, by art rather. To this, Thetis, thou wast wont often to come naked, seated on thy harnessed dolphin. There Peleus seized upon thee, as thou wast lying fast bound in sleep; and because, being tried by entreaties, thou didst resist, he resolved upon violence, clasping thy neck with both his arms. And, unless thou hadst had recourse to thy wonted arts, by frequently changing thy shape, he would have succeeded in his attempt. But, at one moment, thou wast a bird (still, as a bird he held thee fast); at another time a large tree: to that tree did Peleus cling. Thy third form was that of a spotted tiger; frightened by that, the son of Æacus loosened his arms from thy body.

The aged Proteus had said to Thetis, “Goddess of the waves, conceive. You will be the mother of a young man whose brave deeds will surpass his father’s. He will be called greater than his father.” Jupiter feared that the world might contain someone greater than Jove. So, although he had felt a powerful passion for Thetis,⁹⁴⁵ the Goddess of the sea, he avoided her embraces. He ordered his grandson, the son of Æacus,⁹⁴⁶ to pursue her in his place and rush into the ocean maid’s embrace. There is a bay in Hæmonia, curved like an arch, with arms that reach out into the sea. If the water were only deeper, it would form a harbor, but the sea just covers the sand. The shore is firm. It holds no footprints, slows no traveler, and is not covered with seaweed. Nearby is a grove of myrtle, bearing berries of many colors. In the middle is a cave. It is uncertain whether nature or human hands made it, though human hands seem more likely. Thetis, you often came naked to this cave, riding on your harnessed dolphin. There Peleus seized you while you were fast asleep. He tried to win you with pleas, but you resisted. So he decided to use force and wrapped both arms around your neck. He would have succeeded if you had not used your usual arts to change shape repeatedly. First you became a bird, but he held you fast even then. Next you became a large tree, and Peleus clung to that tree. Your third form was a spotted tiger. Frightened by it, the son of Æacus loosened his arms from your body.

Then pouring wine upon its waters,⁹⁴⁷ he worshipped the Gods of the sea, both with the entrails of sheep and with the smoke of frankincense; until the Carpathian⁹⁴⁸ prophet said, from the middle of the waves, “Son of Æacus, thou shalt gain the alliance desired by thee. Do thou only, when she shall be resting fast asleep in the cool cave, bind her unawares with cords and tenacious bonds. And let her not deceive thee, by imitating a hundred forms; but hold her fast, whatever she shall be, until she shall reassume the form which she had before.” Proteus said this, and hid his face in the sea, and received his own waves at his closing words. Titan was now descending, and, with the pole of his chariot bent downward, was taking possession of the Hesperian main; when the beautiful Nereid, leaving the deep, entered her wonted place of repose. Hardly had Peleus well seized the virgin’s limbs, when she changed her shape, until she perceived her limbs to be held fast, and her arms to be extended different ways. Then, at last, she sighed, and said, “Not without the aid of a Divinity, dost thou overcome me;” and then she appeared as Thetis again. The hero embraced her thus revealed, and enjoyed his wish, and by her was the father of great Achilles.

Then he poured wine onto the water⁹⁴⁷ and worshipped the gods of the sea with sheep entrails and frankincense smoke. At last, the Carpathian⁹⁴⁸ prophet spoke from the middle of the waves: “Son of Æacus, you will gain the union you desire. When she is sleeping soundly in the cool cave, bind her unawares with cords and strong bonds. Do not let her deceive you by taking a hundred forms. Hold her fast, whatever form she takes, until she returns to the form she had before.” Proteus spoke, then hid his face in the sea and sank beneath his own waves as his words ended. Titan was now descending toward the western sea, his chariot tilted downward. Then the beautiful Nereid left the deep and entered her usual resting place. Peleus had hardly seized the virgin’s limbs when she changed shape. She kept changing until she realized that her limbs were held fast and her arms stretched in different directions. At last she sighed and said, “You do not overcome me without the aid of a god.” Then she appeared as Thetis again. The hero embraced her in her true form and had his wish. By her he became the father of great Achilles.

And happy was Peleus in his son, happy, too, in his wife, and one to whose lot all blessings had fallen, if you except the crime of his killing Phocus. The Trachinian land⁹⁴⁹ received him guilty of his brother’s blood, and banished from his native home. Here Ceyx, sprung from Lucifer for his father, and having the comeliness of his sire in his face, held the sway without violence and without bloodshed, who, being sad at that time and unlike his former self, lamented the loss of his brother. After the son of Æacus, wearied, both with troubles and the length of the journey, has arrived there, and has entered the city with a few attending him, and has left the flocks of sheep and the herds which he has brought with him, not far from the walls, in a shady valley; when an opportunity is first afforded him of approaching the prince, extending the symbols of peace⁹⁵⁰ with his suppliant hand, he tells him who he is, and from whom descended. He only conceals his crime, and, dissembling as to the true reason of his banishment, he entreats him to aid him by a reception either in his city or in his territory. On the other hand, the Trachinian prince addresses him with gentle lips, in words such as these: “Peleus, our bounties are open even to the lowest ranks, nor do I hold an inhospitable sway. To this my inclination, thou bringest in addition as powerful inducements, an illustrious name, and Jupiter as thy grandsire. And do not lose thy time in entreaty; all that thou askest thou shalt have. Look upon all these things, whatever thou seest, as in part thy own: would that thou couldst behold them in better condition!” and then he weeps. Pelcus and his companions enquire what it is that occasions grief so great. To them he thus speaks:—

Peleus was happy in his son and his wife. Every blessing had fallen to him, except for the crime of killing Phocus. Banished from his native home and guilty of his brother’s murder, he found refuge in the land of Trachis⁹⁴⁹. Ceyx, the son of Lucifer, ruled there without violence or bloodshed. His face had his father’s beauty, but he was now grieving for his brother and unlike his former self. The son of Æacus arrived, worn out by his troubles and his long journey. He entered the city with a few companions. He left the flocks and herds he had brought in a shady valley near the walls. At the first opportunity to approach the prince, he held out the symbols of peace⁹⁵⁰ in his pleading hand. He told Ceyx who he was and who his ancestors were. He concealed only his crime and disguised the true reason for his exile. He begged Ceyx to help him by welcoming him into either the city or the surrounding land. The Trachinian prince replied gently: “Peleus, our gifts are available even to people of the lowest rank. My rule is not inhospitable. Besides my own generous nature, you have powerful claims on my help. Your name is illustrious, and Jupiter is your grandfather. Do not waste time pleading. You shall have all you ask. Consider everything you see here partly your own. I wish you could see it all in better condition!” Then he wept. Pelcus and his companions asked what caused him such great sorrow. He answered:—

“Perhaps you may think that this bird, which lives upon prey, and affrights all the birds, always had wings. It was a man; and as great is the vigour of its courage, as he who was Dædalion by name was active, and bold in war, and ready for violence; he was sprung from him, for his father, who summons forth⁹⁵¹ Aurora, and withdraws the last from the heavens. Peace was cherished by me; the care of maintaining peace and my marriage contract was mine; cruel warfare pleased my brother; that prowess of his subdued both kings and nations, which, changed, now chases the Thisbean doves.⁹⁵² Chione was his daughter, who, highly endowed with beauty, was pleasing to a thousand suitors, when marriageable at the age of twice seven years. By chance Phœbus, and the son of Maia, returning, the one from his own Delphi, the other from the heights of Cyllene, beheld her at the same moment, and at the same moment were inspired with passion. Apollo defers his hope of enjoyment until the hours of night; the other brooks no delay, and with his wand, that causes sleep, touches the maiden’s face. At the potent touch she lies entranced, and suffers violence from the God. Night has now bespangled the heavens with stars; Phœbus personates an old woman, and takes those delights before enjoyed in imagination. When her mature womb had completed the destined time, Autolycus was born, a crafty offspring of the stock of the God with winged feet, ingenious at every kind of theft, and who used, not degenerating from his father’s skill,⁹⁵³ to make white out of black, and black out of white. From Phœbus was born (for she brought forth twins) Philammon, famous for his tuneful song, and for his lyre.

“Perhaps you think this bird, which feeds on prey and frightens all the birds, always had wings. It was once a man named Dædalion. The courage it shows now is as great as his energy, boldness in war, and readiness for violence. He was the son of the one who calls forth⁹⁵¹ Aurora and is the last to leave the heavens. I cherished peace. I cared for keeping the peace and for my marriage. My brother loved cruel warfare. His prowess conquered kings and nations. Now, changed into a bird, he chases the Thisbean doves.⁹⁵² Chione was his daughter. She was very beautiful and attracted a thousand suitors when she reached marriageable age at fourteen. By chance, Phœbus and the son of Maia saw her at the same moment. One was returning from his own Delphi, the other from the heights of Cyllene. Both were struck with passion at once. Apollo put off the pleasure he hoped for until night, but the other could not wait. He touched the girl’s face with his sleep-inducing wand. At its powerful touch, she fell into a trance, and the God violated her. Night had now filled the sky with stars. Phœbus disguised himself as an old woman and took the pleasure he had already enjoyed in imagination. When the full time of her pregnancy had passed, she gave birth to Autolycus. He was the crafty son of the God with winged feet, skilled in every kind of theft. He lived up to his father’s skill,⁹⁵³ making white look black and black look white. Chione gave birth to twins. Philammon was the son of Phœbus, and he was famous for his melodious singing and his lyre.

“But what avails it for her to have brought forth two children, and to have been pleasing to two Gods, and to have sprung from a valiant father, and the Thunderer as her ancestor?⁹⁵⁴ Is even glory thus prejudicial to many? To her, at least, it was a prejudice; who dared to prefer herself to Diana, and decried the charms of the Goddess. But violent wrath was excited in her, and she said, ‘We will please her by our deeds.’⁹⁵⁵ And there was no delay: she bent her bow, and let fly an arrow from the string, and pierced with the reed the tongue that deserved it. The tongue was silent; nor did her voice, and the words which she attempted to utter, now follow; and life, with her blood, left her, as she endeavoured to speak. Oh hapless affection! What pain did I then endure in my heart, as her uncle, and what consolations did I give to my affectionate brother? These the father received no otherwise than rocks do the murmurs of the ocean, and he bitterly lamented his daughter thus snatched from him. But when he beheld her burning, four times had he an impulse to rush into the midst of the pile; thence repulsed, four times did he commit his swift limbs to flight, and, like an ox, bearing upon his galled neck the stings of hornets, he rushed where there was no path. Already did he seem to me to run faster than a human being, and you would have supposed that his feet had assumed wings. Therefore he outran all; and, made swift by the desire for death, he gained the heights of Parnassus.

“But what good did it do her to have borne two children and pleased two Gods? What good did it do her to have a brave father and the Thunderer as an ancestor?⁹⁵⁴ Is glory really harmful to so many? At least, it harmed her. She dared to claim she was more beautiful than Diana and belittled the Goddess’s beauty. But this made Diana furious, and she said, ‘I will please her with my deeds.’⁹⁵⁵ She wasted no time. She drew her bow and shot an arrow, piercing the tongue that deserved it. Her tongue fell silent. Neither her voice nor the words she tried to speak came out. As she struggled to speak, her life left her with her blood. Oh, unhappy love! How my heart ached then for my niece! How I tried to comfort my loving brother! But her father was no more moved by my words than rocks are by the murmuring sea. He bitterly mourned his daughter, torn from him like this. When he saw her burning, he tried four times to rush into the middle of the funeral pyre. Each time he was driven back, and four times he fled swiftly. He rushed through the wilderness like an ox stung by hornets on its chafed neck. He already seemed to me to run faster than any human being. You would have thought his feet had grown wings. So he outran everyone and, driven on by his desire for death, reached the heights of Parnassus.

“Apollo pitying him, when Dædalion would have thrown himself from the top of the rock, made him into a bird, and supported him, hovering in the air upon these sudden wings; and he gave him a curved beak, and crooked claws on his talons, his former courage, and strength greater in proportion than his body; and, now become a hawk, sufficiently benignant to none, he rages equally against all birds; and grieving himself, becomes the cause of grief to others.”

“Apollo pitied Dædalion as he was about to throw himself from the top of the rock. He turned him into a bird, and Dædalion hovered in the air, supported by his sudden wings. Apollo gave him a curved beak and crooked claws on his talons. He also gave him his former courage and strength greater in proportion than his body. Now a hawk, he is kind enough to no one and rages equally against all birds. Grieving himself, he brings grief to others.”

While the son of Lucifer is relating these wonders about his brother, hastening with panting speed, Phocæan Antenor, the keeper of his herds, runs up to him. “Alas, Peleus! Peleus!” says he, “I am the messenger to thee of a great calamity;” and then Peleus bids him declare whatever news it is that he has brought; and the Trachinian hero himself is in suspense, and trembles through apprehension. The other tells his story: “I had driven the weary bullocks to the winding shore, when the Sun at his height, in the midst of his course, could look back on as much of it as he could see to be now remaining; and a part of the oxen had bent their knees on the yellow sands, and, as they lay, viewed the expanse of the wide waters; some, with slow steps, were wandering here and there; others were swimming, and appearing with their lofty necks above the waves. A temple is hard by the sea, adorned neither with marble nor with gold, but made of solid beams, and shaded with an ancient grove; the Nereids and Nereus possess it. A sailor, while he was drying his nets upon the shore, told us that these were the Gods of the temple. Adjacent to this is a marsh, planted thickly with numerous willows, which the water of the stagnating waves of the sea has made into a swamp. From that spot, a huge monster, a wolf, roaring with a loud bellowing, alarms the neighbouring places, and comes forth from the thicket of the marsh, both having his thundering jaws covered with foam and with clotted blood, and his eyes suffused with red flame. Though he was raging both with fury and with hunger, still was he more excited by fury; for he did not care to satisfy his hunger by the slaughter of the oxen, and to satiate his dreadful appetite, but he mangled the whole herd, and, like a true foe, pulled each to the ground. Some, too, of ourselves, while we were defending them, wounded with his fatal bite, were killed. The shore and the nearest waves were red with blood, and the fens were filled with the lowings of the herd. But delay is dangerous, and the case does not allow us to hesitate: while anything is still left, let us all unite, and let us take up arms, arms, I say, and in a body let us bear weapons.”

While the son of Lucifer is telling these wonders about his brother, Phocæan Antenor, his herdsman, comes running up, panting. “Alas, Peleus! Peleus!” he says. “I bring you news of a great calamity.” Peleus then tells him to say what news he has brought. The Trachinian hero waits in suspense, trembling with fear. Antenor tells his story: “I had driven the weary cattle to the winding shore. The Sun was at its height, halfway through its course, with as much of the journey behind it as now remained. Some of the oxen had knelt on the yellow sand. As they lay there, they gazed out over the wide expanse of water. Some wandered here and there with slow steps. Others swam, their long necks rising above the waves. “A temple stands near the sea. It is adorned with neither marble nor gold, but built of solid beams and shaded by an ancient grove. The Nereids and Nereus possess it. A sailor drying his nets on the shore told us that these were the gods of the temple. Beside it is a marsh thick with willows, made swampy by the stagnant waters of the sea. “From that spot came a huge monster, a wolf, roaring with a loud bellow that terrified the surrounding countryside. He emerged from the marsh thicket, with both foam and clotted blood covering his thundering jaws, and his eyes glowing red with fire. Though he raged with both fury and hunger, fury drove him more. He did not care to kill the oxen to satisfy his hunger and dreadful appetite. Instead, he tore at the whole herd and, like a true enemy, pulled each to the ground. Some of us tried to defend them, but he wounded us with his deadly bite, and they died. The shore and the nearby waves ran red with blood, and the marshes echoed with the herd's lowing. “But delay is dangerous, and we cannot hesitate. While anything is still left, let us all join together and take up arms. Arms, I say. Let us take up weapons together.”

Thus speaks the countryman. And the loss does not affect Peleus; but, remembering his crime, he considers that the bereaved Nereid has sent these misfortunes of his, as an offering to the departed Phocus. The Œtæan king⁹⁵⁶ commands his men to put on their armour, and to take up stout weapons; together with whom, he himself is preparing to go. But Halcyone, his wife, alarmed at the tumult, runs out, and not yet having arranged all her hair, even that which is arranged she throws in disorder; and clinging to the neck of her husband, she entreats him, both with words and tears, to send assistance without himself, and so to save two lives in one. The son of Æacus says to her, “O queen, lay aside thy commendable and affectionate fears; the kindness of thy proposal is too great for me. It does not please me, that arms should be employed against this new monster. The Divinity of the sea must be adored.” There is a lofty tower; a fire is upon the extreme summit,⁹⁵⁷ a place grateful to wearied ships. They go up there, and with sighs they behold the bulls lying scattered upon the sea shore, and the cruel ravager with blood-stained mouth, having his long hair stained with gore. Peleus, thence extending his hands towards the open sea, entreats the azure Psamathe to lay aside her wrath, and to give him her aid. But she is not moved by the words of the son of Æacus, thus entreating. Thetis, interceding on behalf of her husband, obtains that favour for him.

Thus the countryman speaks. The loss does not affect Peleus. But he remembers his crime and believes that the bereaved Nereid has sent these misfortunes as an offering to the departed Phocus. The Œtæan king⁹⁵⁶ orders his men to put on their armor and take up sturdy weapons. He prepares to go with them. But his wife, Halcyone, hears the commotion and runs out in alarm. She has not yet finished arranging her hair, and she throws even the part already arranged into disorder. Clinging to her husband’s neck, she begs him in words and tears to send help without going himself. In that way, she says, he can save two lives in one. The son of Æacus says to her, “O queen, put aside your loving fears, though they do you credit. Your offer is too kind for me. I do not want weapons used against this strange monster. The god of the sea must be worshipped.” There is a tall tower with a fire burning at its summit,⁹⁵⁷ a welcome sight for weary ships. They climb the tower and sigh as they see the bulls scattered along the shore. They also see the savage creature, its mouth and long hair stained with blood. Peleus stretches his hands toward the open sea. He begs the azure Psamathe to set aside her anger and help him. But the words of Æacus’s son do not move her. Thetis pleads on her husband’s behalf and wins that favor for him.

But still the wolf persists, not recalled from the furious slaughter, and keenly urged by the sweetness of the blood; until she changes him into marble, as he is fastening on the neck of a mangled heifer. His body preserves every thing except its colour. The colour of the stone shows that he is not now a wolf, and ought not now to be feared. Still, the Fates do not permit the banished Peleus to settle in this land: the wandering exile goes to the Magnetes,⁹⁵⁸ and there receives from the Hæmonian Acastus⁹⁵⁹ an expiation of the murder.

But the wolf keeps up his furious slaughter, and the sweet taste of blood drives him on. At last, as he sinks his teeth into the neck of a mangled heifer, she turns him to marble. His body remains the same in every way except its color. The color of the stone shows that he is no longer a wolf and is no longer to be feared. Still, the Fates do not allow the banished Peleus to settle in this land. The wandering exile goes to the Magnetes,⁹⁵⁸ where the Hæmonian Acastus⁹⁵⁹ purifies him of the murder.

Ceyx, going to Claros, to consult the oracle about his brother’s fate, is shipwrecked on the voyage. Juno sends Iris to the God of Sleep, who, at her request, dispatches Morpheus to Halcyone, in a dream, to inform her of the death of her husband. She awakes in the morning, full of solicitude, and goes to the shore where she finds the body of Ceyx thrown up by the waves. She is about to cast herself into the sea in despair, when the Gods transform them both into king-fishers.

Ceyx sets out for Claros to consult the oracle about his brother’s fate, but he is shipwrecked on the voyage. Juno sends Iris to the God of Sleep. At Iris’s request, the God of Sleep sends Morpheus to Halcyone in a dream to tell her that her husband has died. She wakes in the morning, full of worry, and goes to the shore. There she finds the body of Ceyx, washed up by the waves. In despair, she is about to throw herself into the sea when the gods turn them both into kingfishers.

In the mean time, Ceyx being disturbed in mind, both on account of the strange fate of his brother, and the wonders that had succeeded his brother, prepares to go to the Clarian God, that he may consult the sacred oracle, the consolation of mortals: for the profane Phorbas,⁹⁶⁰ with his Phlegyans, renders the oracle of Delphi inaccessible. Yet he first makes thee acquainted with his design, most faithful Halcyone, whose bones receive a chill, and a paleness, much resembling boxwood, comes over her face, and her cheeks are wet with tears gushing forth. Three times attempting to speak, three times she moistens her face with tears, and, sobs interrupting her affectionate complaints, she says:—

Meanwhile, Ceyx was troubled by his brother’s strange fate and by the wonders that had followed it. He prepared to visit the Clarian God and consult the sacred oracle, a comfort to mortals. For the godless Phorbas,⁹⁶⁰ with his Phlegyans, had made the oracle of Delphi inaccessible. But first he told you of his plan, most faithful Halcyone. A chill ran through your bones. Your face turned pale as boxwood, and tears streamed down your cheeks. Three times you tried to speak, and three times tears wet your face. At last, with sobs interrupting your loving words, you said:

“What fault of mine, my dearest, has changed thy mind? Where is that care of me, which once used to exist? Canst thou now be absent without anxiety, thy Halcyone being left behind? Now, is a long journey pleasing to thee? Now, am I dearer to thee when at a distance? But I suppose thy journey is by land, and I shall only grieve, and shall not fear as well, and my anxiety will be free from apprehension. The seas and the aspect of the stormy ocean affright me. And lately I beheld broken planks on the sea shore; and often have I read the names upon tombs,⁹⁶¹ without bodies there buried. And let not any deceitful assurance influence thy mind, that the grandson of Hippotas⁹⁶² is thy father-in-law; who confines the strong winds in prison, and assuages the seas when he pleases. When, once let loose, the winds have taken possession of the deep, nothing is forbidden to them; every land and every sea is disregarded by them. Even the clouds of heaven do they insult, and by their bold onsets strike forth the brilliant fires.⁹⁶³ The more I know them, (for I do know them, and, when little, have often seen them in my father’s abode,) the more I think they are to be dreaded. But if thy resolution, my dear husband, cannot be altered by my entreaties, and if thou art but too determined to go; take me, too, as well. At least, we shall be tossed together; nor shall I fear anything, but what I shall be then suffering; and together we shall endure whatever shall happen; together we shall be carried over the wide seas.”

“What have I done, my dearest, to make you change your mind? Where is the care you once had for me? Can you now leave your Halcyone behind without worrying? Does a long journey please you now? Am I dearer to you when I am far away? But I suppose you are traveling by land. Then I shall only grieve, not fear as well. I shall be anxious, but have nothing to dread. The sea and the sight of the stormy ocean frighten me. Recently, I saw broken planks on the shore. And I have often read names on tombs⁹⁶¹ with no bodies buried in them. Do not let yourself be lulled into confidence because your father-in-law is the grandson of Hippotas.⁹⁶² He locks up the fierce winds and calms the seas when he pleases. But once the winds are unleashed and take hold of the sea, nothing can stop them. They spare no land or sea. They even attack the clouds of heaven and, with their bold assaults, strike out brilliant flashes of fire.⁹⁶³ I know the winds, having often seen them in my father’s home when I was little. The more I know them, the more I think they are to be feared. But if my pleas cannot change your mind, my dear husband, and you are only too determined to go, take me with you. At least we shall be tossed about together. I shall fear nothing except what I am then suffering. Together we shall endure whatever happens. Together we shall be carried across the wide seas.”

By such words and the tears of the daughter of Æolus, is her husband, son of the Morning Star, much affected; for the flame of love exists no less in him. But he neither wishes to abandon his proposed voyage, nor to admit Halcyone to a share in the danger; and he says, in answer, many things to console her timorous breast. And yet she does not, on that account, approve of his reasons. To them he adds this alleviation, with which alone he influences his affectionate wife: “All delay will, indeed, be tedious to me; but I swear to thee by the fire of my sire, (if only the fates allow me to return,) that I will come back before the moon has twice completed her orb.” When, by these promises, a hope has been given her of his speedy return, he forthwith orders a ship, drawn out of the dock, to be launched in the sea, and to be supplied with its proper equipments. On seeing this, Halcyone again shuddered, as though presaging the future, and shed her flowing tears, and gave him embraces; and at last, in extreme misery, she said, with a sad voice, “Farewell!” and then she sank with all her body to the ground.

The words and tears of the daughter of Æolus deeply moved her husband, the son of the Morning Star. The flame of love burned just as strongly in him. But he would not abandon his planned voyage or let Halcyone share the danger. He said many things to calm her fears. Yet she still did not accept his reasons. He added one assurance, and this alone persuaded his loving wife: “Every delay will be hard for me too. But I swear to you by the fire of my father that I will return before the moon has twice completed her orb. That is, if the fates allow me to return.” His promises gave her hope of his speedy return. He immediately ordered a ship drawn out of the dock and launched into the sea. He also ordered it supplied with its proper equipment. When Halcyone saw this, she shuddered again, as if she foresaw the future. Tears streamed down her face, and she embraced him. At last, in deepest misery, she said in a sad voice, “Farewell!” Then she sank with her whole body to the ground.

But the youths, while Ceyx is still seeking pretexts for delay, in double rows,⁹⁶⁴ draw the oars towards their hardy breasts, and cleave the main with equal strokes. She raises her weeping eyes, and sees her husband standing on the crooked stern, and by waving his hand making the first signs to her; and she returns the signals. When the land has receded further, and her eyes are unable to distinguish his countenance: still, while she can, she follows the retreating ship with her sight. When this too, borne onward, cannot be distinguished from the distance; still she looks at the sails waving from the top of the mast. When she no longer sees the sails; she anxiously seeks her deserted bed, and lays herself on the couch. The bed, and the spot, renew the tears of Halcyone, and remind her what part of herself is wanting.

But while Ceyx is still looking for excuses to delay, the young men sit in two rows⁹⁶⁴ and pull the oars toward their strong chests. Their steady strokes cut through the sea. Halcyone lifts her tearful eyes and sees her husband standing on the curved stern. He waves to her, and she waves back. As the shore falls farther behind, she can no longer make out his face. Still, she watches the departing ship as long as she can. When the ship has sailed too far away to see, she keeps watching the sails waving from the mast. When she can no longer see the sails, she goes anxiously to her empty bed and lies down. The bed and the place bring fresh tears to Halcyone's eyes. They remind her what part of herself is missing.

They have now gone out of harbour, and the breeze shakes the rigging; the sailor urges the pendent oars towards their sides;⁹⁶⁵ and fixes the sailyards⁹⁶⁶ on the top of the mast, and spreads the canvass full from the mast, and catches the coming breezes. Either the smaller part, or, at least, not more than half her course, had now been cut by the ship, and both lands were at a great distance, when, towards night, the sea began to grow white with swelling waves, and the boisterous East wind to blow with greater violence. Presently the master cries, “At once, lower the top sails, and furl the whole of the sail to the yards!” He orders, but the adverse storm impedes the execution; and the roaring of the sea does not allow any voice to be heard.

They have now left the harbor, and the breeze shakes the rigging. The sailor pulls the hanging oars in to the ship’s sides.⁹⁶⁵ He fixes the yards⁹⁶⁶ at the top of the mast, spreads the sail, and catches the coming breezes. The ship had now covered less than half her course, or at least no more than half. Both shores were far away. As night approached, the sea began to turn white with swelling waves, and the fierce East wind blew harder. The captain immediately cried, “Lower the top sails at once, and furl the whole sail to the yards!” He gave the order, but the storm prevented the crew from carrying it out. The roar of the sea drowned out every voice.

Yet, of their own accord, some hasten to draw in the oars, some to secure the sides, some to withdraw the sails from the winds. This one pumps up the waves, and pours back the sea into the sea; another takes off the yards. While these things are being done without any order, the raging storm is increasing, and the fierce winds wage war on every side, and stir up the furious main. The master of the ship is himself alarmed, and himself confesses that he does not know what is their present condition, nor what to order or forbid; so great is the amount of their misfortunes, and more powerful than all his skill. For the men are making a noise with their shouts, the cordage with its rattling, the heavy waves with the dashing of other waves, the skies with the thunder. The sea is upturned with billows, and appears to reach the heavens, and to sprinkle the surrounding clouds with its foam. And one while, when it turns up the yellow sands from the bottom, it is of the same colour with them; at another time it is blacker than the Stygian waves. Sometimes it is level, and is white with resounding foam. The Trachinian ship too, is influenced by these vicissitudes; and now aloft, as though from the summit of a mountain, it seems to look down upon the vallies and the depths of Acheron; at another moment, when the engulphing sea has surrounded it, sunk below, it seems to be looking at heaven above from the infernal waters. Struck on its side by the waves, it often sends forth a low crashing sound, and beaten against, it sounds with no less noise, than on an occasion when the iron battering ram, or the balista, is shaking the shattered towers. And as fierce lions are wont, gaining strength in their career, to rush with their breasts upon the weapons, and arms extended against them; so the water, when upon the rising of the winds it had rushed onwards, advanced against the rigging of the ship, and was much higher than it.

Yet some men hurry, on their own, to pull in the oars. Some secure the sides, and others take down the sails. One pumps out the water and pours the sea back into the sea. Another takes down the yards. As they work without order, the storm grows fiercer. Violent winds battle from every side, stirring up the raging sea. The ship’s master is alarmed too. He admits that he does not know their present condition or what orders to give or withhold. Their troubles are so great that they overwhelm all his skill. The men shout, the ropes rattle, and the heavy waves crash against one another. Thunder roars through the sky. The sea surges in great waves, seeming to reach the heavens and spray the surrounding clouds with foam. At times, it churns up yellow sand from the bottom and takes on its color. At other times, it is blacker than the waters of the Styx. Sometimes it lies level and white with roaring foam. The Trachinian ship is tossed about by these changes. Now it rises high, as if on a mountain peak, seeming to look down on the valleys and depths of Acheron. Then the engulfing sea surrounds it, and the ship sinks low. It seems to look up at heaven from the waters of the underworld. Waves strike its sides, often drawing a low, crashing sound from it. Under their blows, it makes as much noise as shattered towers shaken by an iron battering ram or a balista. Fierce lions gather strength as they charge, hurling their chests against the weapons and arms held out against them. So too the water rushes forward as the winds rise. It charges against the ship’s rigging and towers far above it.

And now the bolts shrink, and despoiled of their covering of wax,⁹⁶⁷ the seams open wide, and afford a passage to the fatal waves. Behold! vast showers fall from the dissolving clouds, and you would believe that the whole of the heavens is descending into the deep, and that the swelling sea is ascending to the tracts of heaven. The sails are wet with the rain, and the waves of the ocean are mingled with the waters of the skies. The firmament is without its fires; and the gloomy night is oppressed both with its own darkness and that of the storm. Yet the lightnings disperse these, and give light as they flash; the waters are on fire with the flames of the thunder-bolts. And now, too, the waves make an inroad into the hollow texture of the ship; and as a soldier, superior to all the rest of the number, after he has often sprung forward against the fortifications of a defended city, at length gains his desires; and, inflamed with the desire of glory, though but one among a thousand more, he still mounts the wall, so, when the violent waves have beaten against the lofty sides, the fury of the tenth wave,⁹⁶⁸ rising more impetuously than the rest, rushes onward; and it ceases not to attack the wearied ship, before it descends within the walls, as it were, of the captured bark. Part, then, of the sea is still attempting to get into the ship, part is within it. All are now in alarm, with no less intensity than a city is wont to be alarmed, while some are undermining the walls without, and others within have possession of the walls. All art fails them, and their courage sinks; and as many shapes of death seem to rush and to break in upon them, as the waves that approach. One does not refrain from tears; another is stupefied; another calls those happy⁹⁶⁹ whom funeral rites await; another, in his prayers, addresses the Gods, and lifting up his hands in vain to that heaven which he sees not, implores their aid. His brothers and his parent recur to the mind of another; to another, his home, with his pledges of affection, and so what has been left behind by each.

Now the bolts shrink, and the seams lose their wax covering.⁹⁶⁷ They open wide, letting in the deadly waves. Look! Torrents pour from the dissolving clouds. You would think the whole sky was falling into the sea, and the swelling sea was rising into the heavens. Rain soaks the sails, and the ocean waves mingle with water from the sky. The sky has no stars, and the dark night is weighed down by its own darkness and the storm’s. Yet lightning scatters the darkness, lighting the scene with its flashes. Thunderbolts set the waters ablaze. Now the waves break into the hollow hull of the ship. A soldier, braver than all the rest, may repeatedly charge the defenses of a city under siege. At last he gets his wish. Driven by a hunger for glory, though only one among a thousand, he climbs the wall. So too, after violent waves batter the ship’s high sides, the tenth wave rises more fiercely than the others.⁹⁶⁸ It rushes forward and keeps attacking the battered ship until it pours over its sides, like a soldier entering a captured vessel. Some of the sea is still trying to enter the ship, while some is already inside. Everyone is terrified. They are as frightened as a city when enemies undermine its walls from outside while others hold the walls within. All their skill fails them, and their courage gives way. As many forms of death seem to rush in upon them as there are waves approaching. One man cannot hold back his tears. Another is numb with fear. Another calls those people fortunate⁹⁶⁹ who can expect funeral rites. Another prays to the gods. He raises his hands in vain toward the sky he cannot see and begs for their help. Another thinks of his brothers and his parent. Another thinks of his home and loved ones. Each remembers what he has left behind.

The remembrance of Halcyone affects Ceyx; on the lips of Ceyx there is nothing but Halcyone; and though her alone he regrets, still he rejoices that she is absent. Gladly, too, would he look back to the shore of his native land, and turn his last glance towards his home; but he knows not where it is. The sea is raging in a hurricane⁹⁷⁰ so vast, and all the sky is concealed beneath the shade brought on by the clouds of pitchy darkness, and the face of the night is redoubled in gloom. The mast is broken by the violence of the drenching tempest; the helm, too, is broken; and the undaunted wave, standing over its spoil, looks down like a conqueror, upon the waves as they encircle below. Nor, when precipitated, does it rush down less violently, than if any God were to hurl Athos or Pindus, torn up from its foundations, into the open sea; and with its weight and its violence together, it sinks the ship to the bottom. With her, a great part of the crew overwhelmed in the deep water, and not rising again to the air, meet their fate. Some seize hold of portions and broken pieces of the ship. Ceyx himself seizes a fragment of the wreck, with that hand with which he was wont to wield the sceptre, and in vain, alas! he invokes his father, and his father-in-law. But chiefly on his lips, as he swims, is his wife Halcyone. Her he thinks of, and her name he repeats: he prays the waves to impel his body before her eyes; and that when dead he may be entombed by the hands of his friends. While he still swims, he calls upon Halcyone far away, as often as the billows allow⁹⁷¹ him to open his mouth, and in the very waves he murmurs her name. When, lo! a darkening arch⁹⁷² of waters breaks over the middle of the waves, and buries his head sinking beneath the bursting billow. Lucifer was obscured that night, and such that you could not have recognized him; and since he was not allowed to depart from the heavens,⁹⁷³ he concealed his face beneath thick clouds.

The memory of Halcyone moves Ceyx. Halcyone is always on his lips. Though she alone is the one he misses, he is glad she is absent. Gladly he would also look back at the shore of his native land and take one last look at home. But he does not know where it is. The sea rages in a vast hurricane,⁹⁷⁰ and the whole sky is hidden beneath pitch-dark clouds. The darkness deepens the gloom of night. The force of the drenching storm breaks the mast and the helm. A fearless wave towers over the wreckage like a conqueror, looking down on the waves circling below. When it crashes down, it strikes no less violently than if a god had torn Athos or Pindus from its foundations and hurled it into the open sea. Its weight and force together sink the ship. A great part of the crew go down with her, drowned in the deep water, never to rise to the air again. Some grab pieces of the broken ship. Ceyx himself grasps a fragment of the wreck with the hand he once used to hold the sceptre. Alas, he calls in vain on his father and his father-in-law. But as he swims, his wife Halcyone is the name most often on his lips. He thinks of her and repeats her name. He prays that the waves will carry his body before her eyes, so that his friends may bury him when he is dead. As he still swims, he calls to the distant Halcyone whenever the waves allow⁹⁷¹ him to open his mouth. Even in the waves, he murmurs her name. Then, look! A dark arch⁹⁷² of water breaks over the waves and buries his head beneath the crashing wave. Lucifer was dim that night, and you could not have recognized him. Since he was not allowed to leave the heavens,⁹⁷³ he hid his face beneath thick clouds.

In the meantime, the daughter of Æolus, ignorant of so great misfortunes, reckons the nights; and now she hastens to prepare the garments⁹⁷⁴ for him to put on, and now, those which, when he comes, she herself may wear, and vainly promises herself his return. She, indeed, piously offers frankincense to all the Gods above; but, before all, she pays her adorations at the temple of Juno, and comes to the altars on behalf of her husband, who is not in existence. And she prays that her husband may be safe, and that he may return, and may prefer no woman before her. But this last alone can be her lot, out of so many of her wishes. But the Goddess endures not any longer to be supplicated on behalf of one who is dead; and, that she may repel her polluted hands⁹⁷⁵ from the altars,—she says, “Iris, most faithful messenger of my words, hasten quickly to the soporiferous court of Sleep, and command him, under the form of Ceyx who is dead, to send a vision to Halcyone, to relate her real misfortune.” Thus she says. Iris assumes garment of a thousand colours, and, marking the heavens with her curving arch, she repairs to the abode of the king, Sleep, as bidden, concealed beneath a rock.

Meanwhile, the daughter of Æolus, unaware of the terrible misfortunes, counts the nights. She hurries to prepare clothes⁹⁷⁴ for him to wear. She also prepares clothes for herself to wear when he returns. She hopes in vain for his return. She devoutly offers frankincense to all the gods above. But above all, she worships at Juno’s temple and comes to the altars to pray for her husband, who is dead. She prays that her husband will be safe, that he will return, and that he will prefer no woman to her. But of all her wishes, only this last one can come true. The goddess can no longer bear to hear prayers for a dead man. So, to keep her polluted hands⁹⁷⁵ away from the altars, she says, “Iris, most faithful messenger of my words, hurry to the sleep-inducing court of Sleep. Tell him to send Halcyone a vision in the form of the dead Ceyx, to tell her of her true misfortune.” Thus she speaks. Iris puts on a garment of a thousand colors. Marking the sky with her curving arch, she goes as commanded to the dwelling of the king, Sleep, hidden beneath a rock.

There is near the Cimmerians⁹⁷⁶ a cave with a long recess, a hollowed mountain, the home and the habitation of slothful Sleep, into which the Sun, whether rising, or in his mid course, or setting, can never come. Fogs mingled with darkness are exhaled from the ground, and it is a twilight with a dubious light. No wakeful bird, with the notes of his crested features, there calls forth the morn; nor do the watchful dogs, or the geese more sagacious⁹⁷⁷ than the dogs, break the silence with their voices. No wild beasts, no cattle, no boughs waving with the breeze, no loud outbursts of the human voice, there make any sound; mute Rest has there her abode. But from the bottom of the rock runs a stream, the waters of Lethe,⁹⁷⁸ through which the rivulet, trickling with a murmuring noise amid the sounding pebbles, invites sleep. Before the doors of the cavern, poppies bloom in abundance, and innumerable herbs, from the juice of which the humid night gathers sleep, and spreads it over the darkened Earth. There is no door in the whole dwelling, to make a noise by the turning of the hinges; no porter at the entrance. But in the middle is a couch, raised high upon black ebony, stuffed with feathers, of a dark colour, concealed by a dark coverlet; on which the God himself lies, his limbs dissolved in sloth. Around him lie, in every direction, imitating divers shapes, unsubstantial dreams as many as the harvest bears ears of corn, the wood green leaves, the shore the sands thrown up. Into this, soon as the maiden had entered, and had put aside with her hands the visions that were in her way, the sacred house shone with the splendour of her garment, and the God, with difficulty lifting up his eyes sunk in languid sloth, again and again relapsing, and striking the upper part of his breast with his nodding chin, at last aroused himself from his dozing; and, raised on his elbow, he inquired why she had come; for he knew who she was.

Near the Cimmerians⁹⁷⁶ is a cave with a long recess, hollowed out of a mountain. It is the home of lazy Sleep. The Sun can never enter it, whether rising, at midday, or setting. Fog and darkness rise from the ground, and it is a dim, uncertain twilight. No wakeful crested bird calls in the morning there. Neither watchful dogs nor geese, wiser⁹⁷⁷ than dogs, break the silence with their cries. No wild beasts, cattle, windblown branches, or loud human voices make a sound there. Silent Rest makes her home there. But a stream flows from the foot of the rock, carrying the waters of Lethe.⁹⁷⁸ Its murmuring waters trickle over the sounding pebbles, inviting sleep. Poppies bloom in abundance before the cave’s entrance, along with countless herbs. From their juice, damp night gathers sleep and spreads it over the darkened Earth. The dwelling has no door to creak on its hinges and no porter at the entrance. In the middle stands a high couch of black ebony, stuffed with feathers. It is dark and covered with a dark coverlet. The God himself lies on it, his limbs slack with sleep. All around him lie shapeless dreams, taking many forms. They are as countless as the ears of corn in a harvest, the green leaves in a wood, or the grains of sand washed onto a shore. As soon as the maiden entered, she pushed aside the visions in her path. Her shining garment lit up the sacred house. The God struggled to lift his eyes, heavy with sleep, but they kept closing again. His chin nodded against his upper chest. At last he woke from his dozing and propped himself on his elbow. He asked why she had come, for he knew who she was.

But she replied, “Sleep, thou repose of all things; Sleep, thou gentlest of the Deities; thou peace of the mind, from which care flies, who dost soothe the hearts of men, wearied with the toils of the day, and refittest them for labour, command a vision, that resembles in similitude the real shape, to go to Halcyone, in Herculean Trachyn, in the form of the king, and to assume the form of one that has suffered shipwreck. Juno commands this.” After Iris had executed her commission, she departed; for she could no longer endure the effects of the vapour; and, as soon as she perceived sleep creeping over her limbs, she took to flight,⁹⁷⁹ and departed along the bow by which she had come just before.

But she replied, “Sleep, you give rest to all things. You are the gentlest of the deities. You bring peace to the mind and drive away care. You soothe the hearts of men weary from the day’s work and make them ready to work again. Command a vision that looks like the king himself to go to Halcyone in Herculean Trachyn. Let it appear as a man who has suffered shipwreck. Juno commands this.” After Iris had delivered her message, she left, for she could no longer endure the effects of the vapor. As soon as she felt sleep creeping over her limbs, she took flight⁹⁷⁹ and departed along the bow by which she had just come.

But Father Sleep, out of the multitude of his thousand sons, raises Morpheus,⁹⁸⁰ a skilful artist, and an imitator of any human shape. No one more dexterously than he mimics the gait, and the countenance, and the mode of speaking; he adds the dress, too, and the words most commonly used by any one. But he imitates men only; for another one becomes a wild beast, becomes a bird, or becomes a serpent, with its lengthened body: this one, the Gods above call Icelos; the tribe of mortals, Phobetor. There is likewise a third, master of a different art, called Phantasos: he cleverly changes himself into earth, and stone, and water, and a tree, and all those things which are destitute of life. These are wont, by night, to show their features to kings and to generals, while others wander amid the people and the commonalty. These, Sleep, the aged God, passes by, and selects Morpheus alone from all his brothers, to execute the commands of the daughter of Thaumas; and again he both drops his head, sunk in languid drowsiness, and shrinks back within the lofty couch.

But Father Sleep chooses Morpheus,⁹⁸⁰ one of his thousand sons. Morpheus is a skilled artist who can imitate any human form. No one is better at mimicking a person's walk, face, and way of speaking. He also copies their clothes and the words they use most often. But Morpheus imitates only men. Another son takes the form of a wild beast, a bird, or a long-bodied serpent. The gods above call him Icelos. Mortals call him Phobetor. There is also a third son, a master of a different art, called Phantasos. He skillfully changes himself into earth, stone, water, a tree, and all things without life. These three appear at night to kings and generals, while others wander among ordinary people. Sleep, the aged god, passes over the others. From all the brothers, he chooses Morpheus alone to carry out the commands of the daughter of Thaumas. Then, overcome by drowsiness, he lowers his head again and sinks back into his high couch.

Morpheus flies through the dark with wings that make no noise, and in a short space of intervening time arrives at the Hæmonian city; and, laying aside his wings from off his body, he assumes the form of Ceyx; and in that form, wan, and like one without blood, without garments, he stands before the bed of his wretched wife. The beard of the hero appears to be dripping, and the water to be falling thickly from his soaking hair. Then leaning on the bed, with tears running down his face, he says these words: “My most wretched wife, dost thou recognise thy Ceyx, or are my looks so changed with death? Observe me; thou wilt surely know me: and, instead of thy husband, thou wilt find the ghost of thy husband. Thy prayers, Halcyone, have availed me nothing; I have perished. Do not promise thyself, thus deceived, my return. The cloudy South wind caught my ship in the Ægean Sea,⁹⁸¹ and dashed it to pieces, tossed by the mighty blasts; and the waves choked my utterance, in vain calling upon thy name. It is no untruthful messenger that tells thee this: thou dost not hear these things through vague rumours. I, myself, shipwrecked, in person, am telling thee my fate. Come, arise then, shed tears, and put on mourning; and do not send me unlamented to the phantom realms of Tartarus.”

Morpheus flies through the dark on silent wings. Soon he reaches the Hæmonian city. He lays aside his wings and takes the form of Ceyx. Pale as if drained of blood and naked, he stands before his miserable wife’s bed. The hero’s beard seems to drip, and water pours from his soaked hair. Then he leans on the bed and speaks, tears running down his face: “My poor wife, do you recognize your Ceyx, or has death changed my face so much? Look at me. You will surely know me, and instead of your husband, you will find his ghost. Your prayers, Halcyone, did nothing to help me. I am dead. Do not deceive yourself by hoping for my return. The cloudy South wind caught my ship in the Ægean Sea.⁹⁸¹ Its mighty blasts tossed the ship and dashed it to pieces. The waves choked me as I called your name in vain. No false messenger tells you this. You are not hearing it through vague rumors. I myself, shipwrecked, am here to tell you my fate. Come, rise, shed tears, and put on mourning. Do not send me unlamented to the shadowy realms of Tartarus.”

To these words Morpheus adds a voice, which she may believe to be that of her husband. He seems, too, to be shedding real tears, and his hands have the gesture of Ceyx. As she weeps, Halcyone groans aloud, and moves her arms in her sleep, and catching at his body, grasps the air; and she cries aloud, “Stay, whither dost thou hurry? We will go together.” Disturbed by her own voice, and by the appearance of her husband, she shakes off sleep; and first she looks about there, to see if he, who has been so lately seen, is there; for the servants, roused by her voice, have brought in lights. After she has found him nowhere, she smites her face with her hands, and tears her garments from off her breast, and beats her breast itself. Nor cares she to loosen her hair; she tears it, and says to her nurse, as she inquires what is the occasion of her sorrow: “Halcyone is no more! no more! with her own Ceyx is she dead. Away with words of comfort. He has perished by shipwreck. I have seen him, and I knew him; and as he departed, desirous to detain him, I extended my hands towards him. The ghost fled: but, yet it was the undoubted and the real ghost of my husband. It had not, indeed, if thou askest me that, his wonted features; nor was he looking cheerful with his former countenance. Hapless, I beheld him, pale, and naked, and with his hair still dripping. Lo! ill-fated man, he stood on this very spot;” and she seeks the prints of his footsteps, if any are left. “This it was, this is what I dreaded in my ill-boding mind, and I entreated that thou wouldst not, deserting me, follow the winds. But, I could have wished, since thou didst depart to perish, that, at least, thou hadst taken me as well. To have gone with thee, yes, with thee, would have been an advantage to me; for then neither should I have spent any part of my life otherwise than together with thee, nor would my death have been divided from thee. Now, absent from thee, I perish; now, absent, I am tossed on the waves; and the sea has thee without me.

Morpheus adds a voice to these words, one she might believe is her husband’s. He also seems to shed real tears, and his hands move like Ceyx’s. Weeping, Halcyone groans aloud and moves her arms in her sleep. She reaches for his body but grasps only air. She cries, “Stay, where are you hurrying? We will go together.” Disturbed by her own voice and her husband’s appearance, she wakes. The servants, roused by her cries, have brought in lights. She looks around first to see if the man she has just seen is there. When she cannot find him, she strikes her face, tears the clothes from her breast, and beats her bare chest. She does not bother to loosen her hair. She tears it out, and when her nurse asks what has caused her grief, she says: “Halcyone is no more! No more! She has died with her own Ceyx. Away with words of comfort. He has died in a shipwreck. I saw him, and I knew him. As he left, I reached out to hold him back. The ghost fled, but it was surely my husband’s real ghost. If you ask me that, he did not have his usual features. His face no longer looked cheerful as it once did. I saw him, wretched, pale, and naked, with his hair still dripping. Look! That unfortunate man stood on this very spot.” She looks for any footprints he may have left. “This was what I feared in my troubled mind. I begged you not to leave me and follow the winds. But since you went away to die, I wish you had at least taken me with you. It would have been better for me to go with you, yes, with you. Then I would have spent every part of my life with you, and we would have died together. Now I die far from you. Now, far from you, I am tossed on the waves, and the sea has you without me.

“My heart were more cruel than the sea itself, were I to strive to protract my life any further; and, were I to struggle to survive so great a misfortune. But I will not struggle, nor, hapless one, will I abandon thee; and, at least, I will now come to be thy companion. And, in the tomb, if the urn does not, yet the inscription⁹⁸² shall unite us: if I touch not thy bones with my bones, still will I unite thy name with my name.” Grief forbids her saying more, and wailings come between each word, and groans are heaved from her sorrow-stricken breast.

“My heart would be crueler than the sea itself if I tried to prolong my life, if I struggled to survive such a great misfortune. But I will not struggle, and I will not abandon you, my unfortunate love. At least I will now become your companion. And in the tomb, if the urn does not unite us, the inscription⁹⁸² will. If my bones do not touch yours, I will still join my name with yours.” Grief prevents her from saying more. She wails between every word, and groans rise from her sorrow-stricken breast.

It is now morning: she goes forth from her abode to the sea-shore, and, wretched, repairs to that place from which she had seen him go, and says, “While he lingered, and while he was loosening the cables, at his departure, he gave me kisses upon this sea-shore;” and while she calls to recollection the incidents which she had observed with her eyes, and looks out upon the sea, she observes on the flowing wave, I know not what object, like a body, within a distant space: and at first she is doubtful what it is. After the water has brought it a little nearer, and, although it is still distant, it is plain that it is a corpse. Ignorant who it may be, because it is ship-wrecked, she is moved at the omen, and, though unknown, would fain give it a tear. “Alas! thou wretched one!” she says, “whoever thou art; and if thou hast any wife!” Driven by the waves, the body approaches nearer. The more she looks at it, the less and the less is she mistress of her senses. And now she sees it brought close to the land, that now she can well distinguish it: it is her husband. “’Tis he!” she exclaims, and, on the instant, she tears her face, her hair, and her garments; and, extending her trembling hands towards Ceyx, she says, “And is it thus, Oh dearest husband! is it thus, Oh ill-fated one! that thou dost return to me?”

It is now morning. She leaves her home and goes to the shore, miserable, to the place where she had watched him leave. She says, “He lingered here, and as he untied the ropes to leave, he kissed me on this shore.” As she remembers what she saw and looks out to sea, she notices an object on the distant waves. She cannot tell what it is, but it looks like a body. At first she is unsure. The water brings it a little closer, and though it is still far away, she can see it is a corpse. She does not know who it is, but the shipwrecked body strikes her as an omen. Though the person is a stranger, she wants to shed a tear for him. “Alas, poor soul!” she says. “Whoever you are, and if you have a wife!” The waves drive the body closer. The more she looks at it, the more she loses her senses. Now it is close enough to shore for her to make it out clearly: it is her husband. “It is he!” she cries. At once she tears at her face, her hair, and her clothes. Reaching out her trembling hands toward Ceyx, she says, “And is this how you return to me, my dearest husband? Is this how you return, my poor, doomed husband?”

A mole, made by the hand of man, adjoins the waves, which breaks the first fury of the ocean, and weakens the first shock of its waters. Upon that she leaped, and ’tis wondrous that she could. She flew, and beating the light air with her wings newly formed, she, a wretched bird, skimmed the surface of the water. And, while she flew, her croaking mouth, with its slender bill, uttered a sound like that of one in sadness, and full of complaining. But when she touched the body, dumb, and without blood, embracing the beloved limbs with her new-made wings, in vain she gave him cold kisses with her hardened bill. The people were in doubt whether Ceyx was sensible of this, or whether, by the motion of the wave, he seemed to raise his countenance; but really he was sensible of it; and, at length, through the pity of the Gods above, both were changed into birds. Meeting with the same fate, even then their love remained. Nor, when now birds, is the conjugal tie dissolved: they couple, and they become parents; and for seven calm days,⁹⁸³ in the winter-time, does Halcyone brood upon her nest floating on the sea.⁹⁸⁴ Then the passage of the deep is safe; Æolus keeps the winds in, and restrains them from sallying forth, and secures a smooth sea for his descendants.

A man-made breakwater stretched into the sea. It broke the ocean’s first fury and weakened the first shock of its waves. She leaped onto it, and it was a wonder that she could. She flew, beating the light air with her newly formed wings. The wretched bird skimmed the surface of the water. As she flew, her slender bill made a croaking sound, like a sad and mournful cry. But when she touched the lifeless, bloodless body, she embraced his beloved limbs with her new wings. In vain, she gave him cold kisses with her hardened bill. The people wondered whether Ceyx felt her touch, or whether the waves only made him seem to raise his face. But really he did feel it. At last, the gods above took pity on them and changed them both into birds. Though they shared the same fate, their love remained. Even now that they are birds, their marriage bond is not broken. They mate and become parents. For seven calm days,⁹⁸³ in winter, Halcyone broods on her nest as it floats on the sea.⁹⁸⁴ Then it is safe to sail the deep. Æolus keeps the winds from rushing out and ensures a smooth sea for his descendants.

The Nymph Hesperia flying from Æsacus, who is enamoured of her, is bitten by a serpent, and instantly dies from the effects of the wound. He is so afflicted at her death, that he throws himself into the sea, and is transformed into a didapper.

The nymph Hesperia flees from Æsacus, who is in love with her. A serpent bites her, and she dies instantly from the wound. Æsacus is so grief-stricken that he throws himself into the sea and is transformed into a didapper.

Some old man⁹⁸⁵ observes them as they fly over the widely extended seas, and commends their love, preserved to the end of their existence. One, close by, or the same, if chance so orders it, says, “This one, too, which you see, as it cuts through the sea, and having its legs drawn up,” pointing at a didapper, with its wide throat, “was the son of a king. And, if you want to come down to him in one lengthened series, his ancestors are Ilus, and Assaracus, and Ganymede,⁹⁸⁶ snatched away by Jupiter, and the aged Laomedon, and Priam, to whom were allotted the last days of Troy. He himself was the brother of Hector, and had he not experienced a strange fate in his early youth, perhaps he would have had a name not inferior to that of Hector; although the daughter of Dymas bore this last. Alexirhoë, the daughter of the two-horned Granicus,⁹⁸⁷ is said secretly to have brought forth Æsacus, under shady Ida.

An old man⁹⁸⁵ watches them fly over the vast seas and praises their love, which lasted until the end of their lives. Someone nearby, or perhaps the same man, says, “That bird you see cutting through the sea with its legs drawn up was also a king’s son.” He points to a didapper with a wide throat. “If you trace his family line down to him, his ancestors are Ilus, Assaracus, Ganymede,⁹⁸⁶ whom Jupiter carried away, the aged Laomedon, and Priam, who lived through Troy’s last days. He was Hector’s brother. If he had not met a strange fate in his youth, perhaps he would have been as famous as Hector. Yet the daughter of Dymas was the mother of the latter. Alexirhoë, daughter of the two-horned Granicus,⁹⁸⁷ is said to have given birth to Æsacus in secret beneath shady Ida.

“He loathed the cities, and distant from the splendid court, frequented the lonely mountains, and the unambitious fields; nor went but rarely among the throngs of Ilium. Yet, not having a breast either churlish, or impregnable to love, he espies Hesperie, the daughter of Cebrenus,⁹⁸⁸ on the banks of her sire, who has been often sought by him throughout all the woods, drying her locks, thrown over her shoulders, in the sun. The Nymph, thus seen, takes to flight, just as the frightened hind from the tawny wolf; and as the water-duck, surprised at a distance, having left her wonted stream, from the hawk. Her the Trojan hero pursues, and, swift with love, closely follows her, made swift by fear. Behold! a snake, lurking in the grass, with its barbed sting, wounds her foot as she flies, and leaves its venom in her body. With her flight is her life cut short. Frantic, he embraces her breathless, and cries aloud,— “I grieve, I grieve that ever I pursued thee. But I did not apprehend this; nor was it of so much value to me to conquer. We two have proved the destruction of wretched thee. The wound was given by the serpent; by me was the occasion given. I should be more guilty than he, did I not give the consolation for thy fate by my own death.” Thus he said; and from a rock which the hoarse waves had undermined, he hurled himself into the sea. Tethys, pitying him as he fell, received him softly, and covered him with feathers as he swam through the sea; and the power of obtaining the death he sought was not granted to him. The lover is vexed that, against his will, he is obliged to live on, and that opposition is made to his spirit, desirous to depart from its wretched abode. And, as he has assumed newformed wings on his shoulders, he flies aloft, and again he throws his body in the waves: his feathers break the fall. Æsacus is enraged; and headlong he plunges into the deep,⁹⁸⁹ and incessantly tries the way of destruction. Love caused his leanness; the spaces between the joints of his legs are long; his neck remains long, and his head is far away from his body. He loves the sea, and has his name because he plunges⁹⁹⁰ in it.

“He hated cities and stayed far from the splendid court, spending his time in lonely mountains and humble fields. He rarely went among the crowds of Ilium. Yet his heart was neither unfriendly nor closed to love. He had often searched the woods for Hesperie, the daughter of Cebrenus.⁹⁸⁸ Now he saw her on the banks of her father’s river, drying her hair in the sun. It hung over her shoulders. The Nymph, thus seen, fled like a frightened deer from a tawny wolf. She fled as a water duck flees a hawk when caught far from its usual stream. The Trojan hero pursued her, made swift by love, while fear made her swift. But a snake lay hidden in the grass. As she fled, it wounded her foot with its barbed fang and left its venom in her body. Her life ended with her flight. Frantic, he embraced her lifeless body and cried aloud, “I grieve, I grieve that I ever pursued you. But I did not foresee this, nor was winning you worth so much to me. Together, we two have destroyed you in your misery. The serpent gave you the wound, but I gave it the chance. I would be more guilty than the serpent if I did not offer my own death as consolation for yours.” Thus he spoke, then threw himself into the sea from a rock the roaring waves had hollowed out. Tethys took pity on him as he fell and caught him gently. As he swam through the sea, she covered him with feathers. He was not allowed to find the death he sought. The lover was angry that he had to live against his will. His spirit longed to leave its miserable home, but was prevented from doing so. With new wings on his shoulders, he flew high and threw himself into the waves again. His feathers broke his fall. Æsacus grew furious and plunged headfirst into the depths.⁹⁸⁹ He kept trying to destroy himself. Love made him lean. His leg joints are far apart, his neck remains long, and his head is far from his body. He loves the sea, and his name comes from the way he plunges⁹⁹⁰ into it.