September

On the Hellenic board of Crete's fair isle,Westward of Drepanon, along a reachWhich massy Cyamum for many a mileJutting to sea delivers from the breachOf North and East,--returning to embayThe favour'd shore--an ancient city lay,Aptera, which is Wingless in our speech.

And hence the name; that here in rocky cove,Thence called Museion, was the trial wagedWhat day the Sirens with the Muses strove,By jealous Hera in that war engaged:Wherein the daughters of MnemosynèO'ercame the chauntresses who vex'd the sea,Nor vengeance spared them by their pride enraged.

For those strange creatures, who with women's wordsAnd wiles made ravenous prey of passers-by,Were throated with the liquid pipe of birds:Of love they sang; and none, who sail'd anighThrough the grey hazes of the cyanine sea,Had wit the whirlpool of that song to flee,Nor fear'd the talon hook'd and feather'd thigh.

But them the singers of the gods o'ercame,And pluck'd them of their plumage, where in frightThey vainly flutter'd off to hide their shame,Upon two rocks that lie within the bight,Under the headland, barren and alone;Which, being with the scatter'd feathers strewn,Were by the folk named Leukæ, which is White.

Thereon about this time the snowy gull,Minion of Aphrodite, being come,Plumed himself, standing on the sea-wrack dull,That drifted from the foot of Cyamum;And 'twas his thought, that had the goddess learntThe tale of Psyche loved and Eros burnt,She ne'er so long had kept aloof and dumb.

Wherefore that duteous gossip of Love's queenDevised that he the messenger would be;And rising from the rock, he skim'd betweenThe chasing waves--such grace have none but he;--Into the middle deep then down he dived,And rowing with his glistening wings arrivedAt Aphrodite's bower beneath the sea.

The eddies from his silver pinions swirl'dThe crimson, green, and yellow floss, that grewAbout the caves, and at his passing curl'dIts graceful silk, and gently waved anew:Till, oaring here and there, the queen he foundStray'd from her haunt unto a sandy ground,Dappl'd with eye-rings in the sunlight blue.

She, as he came upon her from above,With Hora play'd; Hora, her herald fair,That lays the soft necessity of LoveOn maidens' eyelids, and with tender careMarketh the hour, as in all works is fit:And happy they in love who time outwit,Fondly constrained in her season rare.

But he with garrulous and laughing tongueBroke up his news; how Eros, fallen sick,Lay tossing on his bed, to frenzy stungBy such a burn as did but barely prick:A little bleb, no bigger than a pease,Upon his shoulder 'twas, that kill'd his ease,Fever'd his heart, and made his breathing thick.

'For which disaster hath he not been seenThis many a day at all in any place:And thou, dear mistress,' piped he, 'hast not beenThyself amongst us now a dreary space:The pining mortals suffer from a dearthOf love; and for this sadness of the earthThy family is darken'd with disgrace.

'Now on the secret paths of dale and wood,Where lovers walk'd are lovers none to find:And friends, besworn to equal brotherhood,Forget their faith, and part with words unkind:In the first moon thy honey-bond is loath'd:And I coud tell even of the new-betroth'dThat fly o'ersea, and leave their loves behind.

'Summer is over, but the merry pipe,That wont to cheer the harvesting, is mute:And in the vineyards, where the grape is ripe,No voice is heard of them that take the fruit.No workman singeth at eve nor maiden danceth:All joy is dead, and as the year advancethThe signs of woe increase on man and brute.

''Tis plain that if thy pleasure longer pause,Thy mighty rule on earth hath seen its day:The race must come to perish, and no causeBut that thou sittest with thy nymphs at play,While on a Cretan hill thy truant boyHath with his pretty mistress turn'd to toy,And less for pain than love pineth away.'

'Ha! Mistress!' cried she; 'Hath my beardless sonBeen hunting for himself his lovely game?Some young Orestiad hath his fancy won?Some Naiad? say; or is a Grace his flame?Or maybe Muse, and then 'tis Erato,The trifling wanton. Tell me, if thou know,Woman or goddess is she? and her name.'

Then said the snowy gull, 'O heavenly queen,What is my knowledge, who am but a bird?Yet is she only mortal, as I ween,And namèd Psyche, if I rightly heard.'--But Aphrodite's look daunted his cheer,Ascare he fled away, screaming in fear,To see what wrath his simple tale had stirr'd.

He flasht his pens, and sweeping widely roundTower'd to air; so swift in all his way,That whence he dived he there again was foundAs soon as if he had but dipt for prey:And now, or e'er he join'd his wailful flock,Once more he stood upon the Sirens' rock,And preen'd his ruffl'd quills for fresh display.

But as ill tidings will their truth assureWithout more witness than their fatal sense,So, since was nothing bitterer to endure,The injured goddess guess'd the full offence:And doubted only whether first to smiteOr Psyche for her new presumptuous flight,Or Eros for his disobedience.

But full of anger to her son she went,And found him in his golden chamber laid;And with him sweet Euphrosynè, attentUpon his murmur'd wants, aye as he badeShifted the pillows with each fretful whim;But scornfully his mother look'd at him,And reckless of his pain gan thus upbraid:

'O worthy deeds, I say, and true to blood,The crown and pledge of promise! thou that wastIn estimation my perpetual bud,Now fruiting thus untimely to my cost;Backsliding from commandment, ay, and worse,With bliss to favour one I bade thee curse,And save the life I left with thee for lost!

'Thou too to burn with love, and love of herWhom I did hate; and to thy bed to takeMy rival, that my trusted officerMight of mine enemy my daughter make!Dost thou then think my love for thee so fond,And miserably doting, that the bondBy such dishonour strainèd will not break?

'Or that I cannot bear another sonAs good as thou; or, if I choose not bear,Not beg as good a lusty boy of oneOf all my nymphs,--and some have boys to spare,--Whom I might train, to whom thine arms made o'erShould do me kinder service than before,To smite my foes and keep my honour fair?

'For thou hast ever mockt me, and beguiledIn amours strange my God, thy valiant sire:And having smirch'd our fame while yet a childWilt further foul it now with earthly fire.But I--do as thou may--have vow'd to killThy fancied girl, whether thou love her still,Or of her silly charms already tire.

'Tell me but where she hides.' And Eros now,Proud in his woe, boasted his happy theft:Confessing he had loved her well, and howBy her own doing she was lost and left;And homeless in such sorrow as outwentThe utmost pain of other punishment,Was wandering of his love and favour reft.

By which was Cypris gladden'd, not appeased,But hid her joy and spake no more her threat:And left with face like one that much displeasedHath yet betray'd that he can wrong forget.When lo! as swiftly she came stepping downFrom her fair house into the heavenly townThe Kronian sisters on the way she met;

Hera, the Wife of Zeus, her placid frontDark with the shadow of his troubl'd reign,And tall Demeter, who with men once wont,Holding the high Olympians in disdainFor Persephassa's rape; which now forgiven,She had return'd unto the courts of Heaven,And 'mong the immortals liv'd at peace again:

Whose smile told Aphrodite that they knewThe meaning of her visit; and a flushOf anger answer'd them, while hot she grew.But Hera laugh'd outright: 'Why thou dost blush!Now see we modest manners on my life!And all thy little son has got a wifeCan make the crimson to thy forehead rush.

'Didst think he, whom thou madest passion's prince,No privy dart then for himself would poise?Nay, by the cuckoo on my sceptre, since'Twas love that made thee mother of his joys,Art thou the foremost to his favour bound;As thou shouldst be the last to think to soundThe heart, and least of all thy wanton boy's.'

But her Demeter, on whose stalwart armShe lean'd, took up: 'If thou wilt hark to me,This Psyche,' said she, 'hath the heavenly charm,And will become immortal. And maybeTo marry with a woman is as wellAs wed a god and live below in Hell:As 'twas my lot in child of mine to see.'

Which things they both said, fearing in their heartsThat savage Eros, if they mockt his case,Would kill their peace with his revengeful darts,And bring them haply to a worse disgrace:But Aphrodite, saying 'Good! my dames;Behind this smoke I see the spite that flames,'Left them, and on her journey went apace.

For having purposed she would hold no truceWith Psyche or her son, 'twas in her mindTo go forthwith unto the throne of Zeus,And beg that Hermes might be sent to findThe wanderer; and secure that in such questHe would not fail, she ponder'd but how bestShe might inflict her vengeance long-design'd.