December

A single lamp there stood beside the heap,And shed thereon its mocking golden light;Such as might tempt the weary eye to sleepRather than prick the nerve of taskèd sight.Yet Psyche, not to fail for lack of zeal,With good will sat her down to her ordeal,Sorting the larger seeds as best she might.

When lo! upon the wall, a shadow pastOf doubtful shape, across the chamber dimMoving with speed: and seeing nought that castThe shade, she bent her down the flame to trim;And there the beast itself, a little ant,Climb'd up in compass of the lustre scant,Upon the bowl of oil ran round the rim.

Smiling to see the creature of her fearSo dwarf'd by truth, she watcht him where he crept,For mere distraction telling in his earWhat straits she then was in, and telling wept.Whereat he stood and trim'd his horns; but ereHer tale was done resumed his manner scare,Ran down, and on his way in darkness kept.

But she intent drew forth with dextrous handThe larger seeds, or push'd the smaller back,Or light from heavy with her breathing fan'd.When suddenly she saw the floor grow black,And troops of ants, flowing in noiseless train,Moved to the hill of seeds, as o'er a plainArmies approach a city for attack;

And gathering on the grain, began to striveWith grappling horns: and each from out the heapHis burden drew, and all their motion liveStruggled and slid upon the surface steep.And Psyche wonder'd, watching them, to findThe creatures separated kind from kind:Till dizzied with the sight she fell asleep.

And when she woke 'twas with the morning soundOf Aphrodite's anger at the door,Whom high amaze stay'd backward, as she foundHer foe asleep with all her trouble o'er:And round the room beheld, in order due,The piles arranged distinct and sorted true,Grain with grain, seed with seed, and spore with spore.

She fiercely cried 'Thou shalt not thus escape;For to this marvel dar'st thou not pretend.There is but one that could this order shape,Demeter,--but I knew her not thy friend.Therefore another trial will I set,In which she cannot aid thee nor abet,But thou thyself must bring it fair to end.'

Thereon she sped her to the bounds of Thrace,And set her by a river deep and wide,And said 'To east beyond this stream, a raceOf golden-fleecèd sheep at pasture bide.Go seek them out; and this thy task, to pullBut one lock for me of their precious wool,And give it in my hands at eventide:

'This do and thou shalt have thy heart's desire.'Which said, she fled and left her by the stream:And Psyche then, with courage still entire,Had plunged therein; but now of great esteemHer life she rated, while it lent a spellWherein she yet might hope to quit her well,And in one winning all her woes redeem.

There as she stood in doubt, a fluting voiceRose from the flood, 'Psyche, be not afraidTo hear a reed give tongue, for 'twas of choiceThat I from mortal flesh a plant was made.My name is Syrinx; once from mighty PanInto the drowning river as I ran,A fearful prayer my steps for ever stay'd.

'But by that change in many climes I live;And Pan, my lover, who to me aloneIs true and does me honour, I forgive--Nor if I speak in sorrow is't my own:Rather for thee my voice I now upliftTo warn thee plunge not in the river swift,Nor seek the golden sheep to men unknown.

'If thou should cross the stream, which may not be,Thou coudst not climb upon the hanging rocks,Nor ever, as the goddess bade thee, seeThe pasture of the yellow-fleecèd flocks:Or if thou coud, their herded horns would goreAnd slay thee on the crags, or thrust thee o'erEre thou coudst rob them of their golden locks.

'The goddess means thy death. But I can showHow thy obedience yet may thwart her will.At noon the golden flocks descend below,Leaving the scented herbage of the hill,And where the shelving banks to shallows fall,Drink at the rippling water one and all,Nor back return till they have drawn their fill.

'I will command a thornbush, that it stoopOver some ram that steppeth by in peace,And him in all its prickles firmly coop,Making thee seizure of his golden fleece;So without peril of his angry hornsShalt thou be quit: for he upon the thornsMust leave his ransom ere he win release.'

Then Psyche thankt her for her kind befriending,And hid among the rushes looking east;And when noon came she saw the flock descendingOut of the hills; and lo! one golden beastCaught in a thornbush; and the mighty bruteStruggl'd and tore it from its twisted rootInto the stream, or e'er he was releas't.

And when they water'd were and gone, the breezeFloated the freighted thorn where Psyche lay:Whence she unhook'd the golden wool at ease,And back to heaven for passage swift gan pray.And Hermes, who was sent to be her guideIfso she lived, came down at eventide,And bore her thither ere the close of day.

But when the goddess saw the locks of goldHeld to her hands, her heart with wrath o'erran:'Most desperate thou, and by abetting bold,That dost outwit me, prove thee as I can.Yet this work is not thine: there is but oneOf all the gods who coud the thing have done.Hast thou a friend too in the lusty Pan?

'I'll give thee trial where he cannot aid.'Which said, she led her to a torrid land,Level and black, but not with flood or shade,For nothing coud the mighty heat withstand,Which aye from morn till eve the naked sunPour'd on that plain, where never foot had run,Nor any herb sprung on its molten sand.

Far off a gloomy mountain rose alone:And Aphrodite, thither pointing, said'There lies thy task. Out of the topmost stoneOf yonder hill upwells a fountain head.Take thou this goblet; brimming must thou bringIts cup with water from that sacred spring,If ever to my son thou wouldst be wed.'

Saying, she gave into her hands a bowlCut of one crystal, open, broad and fair;And bade her at all hazard keep it whole,For heaven held nought beside so fine or rare.Then was she gone; and Psyche on the plainNow doubted if she ever should regainThe love of Eros, strove she howsoe'er.

Yet as a helmsman, at the word to tack,Swiftly without a thought puts down his helm,So Psyche turn'd to tread that desert black,Since was no fear that coud her heart o'erwhelm;Nor knew she that she went the fount to seekOf cold Cocytus, springing to the peak,Secretly from his source in Pluto's realm.

All night and day she journey'd, and at lastCome to the rock gazed up in vain around:Nothing she saw but precipices vastO'er ruined scarps, with rugged ridges crown'd:And creeping to a cleft to rest in shade,Or e'er the desperate venture she assay'd,She fell asleep upon the stony ground.

A dream came to her, thus: she stood aloneWithin her palace in the high ravine;Where nought but she was changed, but she to stone.Worshippers throng'd the court, and still were seenFolk flying from the peak, who, ever moreFlying and flying, lighted on the floor,Hail! cried they, wife of Eros, adorèd queen!

A hurtling of the battl'd air disturb'dHer sunken sense, and waked her eyes to meetThe kingly bird of Zeus, himself that curb'dHis swooping course, alighting at her feet;With motion gentle, his far-darting eyeIn kindness dim'd upon her, he drew nigh,And thus in words unveil'd her foe's deceit:

'In vain, poor Psyche, hast thou hither strivenAcross the fiery plain toiling so well;Cruelly to destruction art thou drivenBy her, whose hate thou canst not quit nor quell.No mortal foot may scale this horrid mount,And those black waters of its topmost fountAre guarded by the hornèd snakes of hell.

'Its little rill is an upleaping jetOf cold Cocytus, which for ever licksEarth's base, and when with Acheron 'tis met,Its waters with that other cannot mix,Which holds the elemental air dissolved;But with it in its ceaseless course revolvedIssues unmingl'd in the lake of Styx.

'The souls of murderers, in guise of fish,Scream as they swim therein and wail for cold,Their times of woe determined by the wishOf them they murder'd on the earth of old:Whom each five years they see, whene'er they makeTheir passage to the Acherusian lake,And there release may win from pains condoled.

'For if the pitying ear of them they slewBe haply piercèd by their voices spare,Then are they freed from pain; as are some few,But, for the most, again they forward fareTo Tartarus obscene, and outcast thenceAre hurried back into the cold intense,And with new company their torments share.

'Its biting lymph may not be touch'd of manOr god, unless the Fates have so ordain'd;Nor coud I in thy favour break the ban,Nor pass the dragons that thereby are chain'd,Didst thou not bear the sacred cup of Zeus;Which, for thy peril lent, shall turn to use,And truly do the service which it feign'd.'

Thus as he spake, his talons made he ringAround the crystal bowl, and soaring highDescended as from heaven upon the spring:Nor dared the hornèd snakes of hell denyThe minister of Zeus, that bore his cup,To fill it with their trusted water up,Thence to the King of heaven therewith to fly.

But he to Psyche bent his gracious speed,And bidding her to mount his feather'd backBore her aloft as once young Ganymede;Nor ever made his steady flight to slack,Ere that he set her down beside her goal,And gave into her hands the crystal bowlUnspill'd, o'erbrimming with the water black.