A young woman sits on a low branch of a blossom treeGamba le Preydour (modern).Blossoms.
Gamba le Preydour (modern).
Blossoms.
Sweet wind, fair wind, where have you been?“I’ve been sweeping the cobwebs out of the sky;I’ve been grinding a grist in the mill hard by;I’ve been laughing at work while others sigh;Let those laugh who win!”Sweet rain, soft rain, what are you doing?“I’m urging the corn to fill out its cells;I’m helping the lily to fashion its bells;I’m swelling the torrent and brimming the wells:Is that worth pursuing?”Redbreast, redbreast, what have you done?“I’ve been watching the nest where my fledgelings lie;I’ve sung them to sleep with a lullaby;By and by I shall teach them to fly,Up and away, every one!”Honeybee, honeybee, where are you going?“To fill my basket with precious pelf;To toil for my neighbor as well as myself;To find out the sweetest flower that grows,Be it a thistle or be it a rose—A secret worth the knowing!”Wind and rain fulfilling His word!Tell me, was ever a legend heardWhere the wind, commanded to blow, deferred;Or the rain, that was bidden to fall, demurred?—Mary N. Prescott.
Sweet wind, fair wind, where have you been?“I’ve been sweeping the cobwebs out of the sky;I’ve been grinding a grist in the mill hard by;I’ve been laughing at work while others sigh;Let those laugh who win!”Sweet rain, soft rain, what are you doing?“I’m urging the corn to fill out its cells;I’m helping the lily to fashion its bells;I’m swelling the torrent and brimming the wells:Is that worth pursuing?”Redbreast, redbreast, what have you done?“I’ve been watching the nest where my fledgelings lie;I’ve sung them to sleep with a lullaby;By and by I shall teach them to fly,Up and away, every one!”Honeybee, honeybee, where are you going?“To fill my basket with precious pelf;To toil for my neighbor as well as myself;To find out the sweetest flower that grows,Be it a thistle or be it a rose—A secret worth the knowing!”Wind and rain fulfilling His word!Tell me, was ever a legend heardWhere the wind, commanded to blow, deferred;Or the rain, that was bidden to fall, demurred?—Mary N. Prescott.
Sweet wind, fair wind, where have you been?“I’ve been sweeping the cobwebs out of the sky;I’ve been grinding a grist in the mill hard by;I’ve been laughing at work while others sigh;Let those laugh who win!”
Sweet rain, soft rain, what are you doing?“I’m urging the corn to fill out its cells;I’m helping the lily to fashion its bells;I’m swelling the torrent and brimming the wells:Is that worth pursuing?”
Redbreast, redbreast, what have you done?“I’ve been watching the nest where my fledgelings lie;I’ve sung them to sleep with a lullaby;By and by I shall teach them to fly,Up and away, every one!”
Honeybee, honeybee, where are you going?“To fill my basket with precious pelf;To toil for my neighbor as well as myself;To find out the sweetest flower that grows,Be it a thistle or be it a rose—A secret worth the knowing!”
Wind and rain fulfilling His word!Tell me, was ever a legend heardWhere the wind, commanded to blow, deferred;Or the rain, that was bidden to fall, demurred?
Venus is the goddess of beauty, born of the ocean spray. When the tritons and nymphs who live in the sea beheld her, they loved her for her beauty, and the waves and gentle breezes bore her to Olympus.
Venus is attended by three maidens called the Graces, who give to the beauty of the goddess a charm which makes her lovely to all.
When she came to Olympus, all the gods loved her, but she proudly rejected the eager suitors. When Jupiter, the king of the gods, fared no better than the rest, he declared that she should be punished for her pride and must marry Vulcan, the lame blacksmith god who lived in the volcano, Mount Etna. Vulcan was delighted with her grace and beauty, and made for her a magic girdle, and the wonderful arrows of Cupid.
Joy and mirth always attend the goddess of beauty. Cupid, her son, the roguish god of love, is her constant companion, and he sends his arrows wherever she directs. Venus drives in a chariot drawn by graceful swans. Cooing doves are her favorite birds, and roses and myrtle are sacred to her.
Sculpture of VenusLouvre, Paris.Venus de Milo.
Louvre, Paris.
Venus de Milo.
At the wedding of Thetis, a water nymph, all the gods and goddesses except Eris were seated at the banquet.Eris is the goddess of discord, and she had not been invited, as she always causes people to quarrel and so is loved by no one. She was angry at this slight, and, coming to the door of the banquet hall, she threw a golden apple upon the table.
On the apple was written, “To the fairest.” Eris knew that this would be an apple of discord, because all the nymphs and goddesses were fair, and each would claim to be fairer than the others.
After much discussion, the guests agreed that Juno, Minerva, and Venus were fairer than all the others. These three at last decided to go to Paris and let him judge between them. Paris was a shepherd of Mount Ida, in Troy, and before him the lovely trio appeared in all their wonderful beauty. He held the apple long in his hand, for all were so fair that it was very difficult to decide. At last he gave the apple to Venus, and thus decided that she was fairest of all the goddesses.
This decision is called the “Judgment of Paris.”
Artists have often tried to paint their ideals of Venus. The most beautiful statues in the world, ideals of womanly beauty, are those of this goddess. They are in the galleries of the Old World. The one said to be the most lovely is the Venus de Milo, in the gallery of the Louvre, Paris.
Sculpture of a young woman dressed in a simple robeA Star.
A Star.
Such a starved bank of mossTill, that May morn,Blue ran the flash across:Violets were born!Sky—what a scowl of cloudTill, near and far,Ray on ray split the shroud:Splendid, a star!World—how it walled aboutLife with disgrace,Till God’s own smile came out:That was thy face!—Robert Browning.
Such a starved bank of mossTill, that May morn,Blue ran the flash across:Violets were born!Sky—what a scowl of cloudTill, near and far,Ray on ray split the shroud:Splendid, a star!World—how it walled aboutLife with disgrace,Till God’s own smile came out:That was thy face!—Robert Browning.
Such a starved bank of mossTill, that May morn,Blue ran the flash across:Violets were born!
Sky—what a scowl of cloudTill, near and far,Ray on ray split the shroud:Splendid, a star!
World—how it walled aboutLife with disgrace,Till God’s own smile came out:That was thy face!
Psyche sits near the sea, with a butterfly perched on her fingerKray (modern).Psyche.
Kray (modern).
Psyche.
There once lived a maid, called Psyche, who was so very beautiful that the people who knew her thought her more lovely than Venus. So they worshiped her, and refused to place garlands and offerings upon the shrines of the goddess.
Desiring to punish the people for their impiety, Venus sent Cupid to destroy the innocent Psyche. Although Cupid had used his weapons upon others, he himself had never loved. But when he saw Psyche, he started in surprise at her wonderful youthful beauty, and one of his own arrows pricked his heart. So he loved her, and, instead of obeying his mother’s command, he carried her away to his home on a distant mountain.
Here she lived in a palace of gleaming marble, surrounded by gardens wherein were fragrant flowers and sparkling fountains. But one thing troubled her. Cupid had told her that he could visit her only during the night, and so she had never seen his face.
One night Psyche yielded to her curiosity, and held a lamp over him while he slept. Dear Love was so beautiful as he lay there asleep, that she tipped the lamp in her surprise, and a drop of oil fell upon his rounded arm. Then he awoke and blamed Psyche for her curiosity and lack of confidence, and, spreading hiswings, flew far away to his home with the gods. Poor Psyche wept bitterly, but Cupid did not return.
Psyche means the soul, and this story teaches that love comes unsought and unseen to the soul which is faithful and worthy; but if doubt and curiosity possess the soul, love departs.
The Greeks chose the butterfly as the best emblem of the soul of man, because it emerges from the chrysalis state into which the caterpillar entered more beautiful than before. Psyche, the soul, is thus shown in the works of art with the wings of a butterfly, or holding one of the exquisite creatures in her hand.
The night has a thousand eyes,And the day but one;Yet the light of the bright world diesWith the dying sun.The mind has a thousand eyes,And the heart but one;Yet the light of a whole life diesWhen love is done.—Francis Bourdillon.
The night has a thousand eyes,And the day but one;Yet the light of the bright world diesWith the dying sun.The mind has a thousand eyes,And the heart but one;Yet the light of a whole life diesWhen love is done.—Francis Bourdillon.
The night has a thousand eyes,And the day but one;Yet the light of the bright world diesWith the dying sun.
The mind has a thousand eyes,And the heart but one;Yet the light of a whole life diesWhen love is done.
Charon rows Psyche across the River StyxE. Neide (modern).Psyche and Charon.
E. Neide (modern).
Psyche and Charon.
Poor Psyche wandered far. At last she found Venus, whom she begged to have pity and restore Cupid to her. Venus gave her many tasks to perform. Although Psyche was often very tired, she knew she deserved to work and suffer, because of her lack of faith in Cupid. Finally, Venus sent her down to Hades, where King Pluto and Queen Persephone reign, to bring back a box of beauty ointment.
The way was long and rough and dark. But Psyche persevered, and finally reached the river Styx. Shecalled to the grim boatman, Charon, to row her across. He obeyed, and rowed her over the black river in his dingy boat, and Persephone gave her the box. Psyche was frightened by the terrible cries and the wretched dark faces of the souls in Hades. But she thought only of Love. Then all the monsters ceased to annoy her, and she came safely to earth again.
Alas, when her work was so bravely done, why did she yield to temptation? She thought Love would think more of her if she were fairer, and she opened the box to take just a little of the precious beauty ointment. There was nothing in the box but a bad dream, which immediately seized her, and she fell down in sleep.
Cupid loved and was sorry for Psyche, and he feared that some misfortune had befallen her; so he spread his wings and flew in search of the soul he loved. He soon found her asleep by the roadside. He awoke her, and together they went to Olympus, where Venus forgave them, and permitted them to be married.
Now Love and the Soul belong together, and although the way is dark and lonely and difficult, you must believe that
“Love leads the soul to its perfection.”
“Love leads the soul to its perfection.”
“Love leads the soul to its perfection.”
Of all the myriad moods of mindThat through the soul come throngingWhich one was e’er so dear, so kind,So beautiful as Longing?The thing we long for, that we areFor one transcendent moment,Before the Present poor and bareCan make its sneering comment.Still, through our paltry stir and strife,Glows down the wished Ideal,And Longing molds in clay what LifeCarves in the marble Real:To let the new life in, we know,Desire must ope the portal;Perhaps the longing to be soHelps make the soul immortal.Ah! let us hope that to our praiseGood God not only reckonsThe moments when we tread His ways,But when the spirit beckons,That some slight good is also wroughtBeyond self-satisfaction,When we are simply good in thought,Howe’er we fail in action.—James Russell Lowell.
Of all the myriad moods of mindThat through the soul come throngingWhich one was e’er so dear, so kind,So beautiful as Longing?The thing we long for, that we areFor one transcendent moment,Before the Present poor and bareCan make its sneering comment.Still, through our paltry stir and strife,Glows down the wished Ideal,And Longing molds in clay what LifeCarves in the marble Real:To let the new life in, we know,Desire must ope the portal;Perhaps the longing to be soHelps make the soul immortal.Ah! let us hope that to our praiseGood God not only reckonsThe moments when we tread His ways,But when the spirit beckons,That some slight good is also wroughtBeyond self-satisfaction,When we are simply good in thought,Howe’er we fail in action.—James Russell Lowell.
Of all the myriad moods of mindThat through the soul come throngingWhich one was e’er so dear, so kind,So beautiful as Longing?The thing we long for, that we areFor one transcendent moment,Before the Present poor and bareCan make its sneering comment.
Still, through our paltry stir and strife,Glows down the wished Ideal,And Longing molds in clay what LifeCarves in the marble Real:To let the new life in, we know,Desire must ope the portal;Perhaps the longing to be soHelps make the soul immortal.
Ah! let us hope that to our praiseGood God not only reckonsThe moments when we tread His ways,But when the spirit beckons,That some slight good is also wroughtBeyond self-satisfaction,When we are simply good in thought,Howe’er we fail in action.
A cherubic Cupid kisses a young Psyche on the cheekW. A. Bouguereau (modern).Cupid and Psyche.
W. A. Bouguereau (modern).
Cupid and Psyche.
In the old Roman days, the people, in the month of February, had a great feast, when they purified their homes and made sacrifices to the gods. After this, the young people had games, and one of them was like that of our valentine box. In this box were placed the names of maidens. The young men drew out the names, and each must be a true and loyal knight, for the following year, to the young woman whose name he drew.
The name “valentine” comes from a kind Christian monk, who was the friend of youth. We send valentines to those we love, and you know there are emblems of love and fidelity upon these pretty gifts. Here are the cooing doves, the graceful swan, the rose, and the myrtle—all sacred to Venus, goddess of love and beauty. Cupid, her mischievous son, has his bow and quiver filled with arrows with which to pierce the hearts of the young. Here is the butterfly, the emblem of Psyche, the Soul, whom Love chose to be his wife.
From the story of Cupid and Psyche we learn how love ennobles the soul, purifying it of doubt, and raising it to perfect faith. For this reason, we may well celebrate the day of kind St. Valentine, by sending words of love and gifts of affection to our friends, in the form of dainty valentines.
In the dark silence of her chamber lowMarch works sweeter things than mortals know.Her noiseless looms ply on with busy care,Weaving the fine cloth that the flowers wear;She sews the seams in violet’s queer hood,And paints the sweet arbutus of the wood.Out of a bit of sky’s delicious blueShe fashions hyacinths, and harebells too;And from a sunbeam makes a cowslip fair,Or spins a gown for a daffodil to wear.She pulls the cover from the crocus bedsAnd bids the sleepers lift their drowsy heads.“Come, early risers; come, anemone,My pale windflower, awake, awake,” calls she.“The world expects you, and your lovers waitTo give you welcome at Spring’s open gate.”She marshals the close armies of the grass,And polishes their green blades as they passAnd all the blossoms of the fruit trees sweetAre piled in rosy shells about her feet.Within her great alembic she distillsThe dainty odor which each flower fills.Nor does she ever give to mignonetteThe perfume that belongs to violet.Nature does well whatever task she triesBecauseobedient,—there the secret lies.—May Riley Smith.
In the dark silence of her chamber lowMarch works sweeter things than mortals know.Her noiseless looms ply on with busy care,Weaving the fine cloth that the flowers wear;She sews the seams in violet’s queer hood,And paints the sweet arbutus of the wood.Out of a bit of sky’s delicious blueShe fashions hyacinths, and harebells too;And from a sunbeam makes a cowslip fair,Or spins a gown for a daffodil to wear.She pulls the cover from the crocus bedsAnd bids the sleepers lift their drowsy heads.“Come, early risers; come, anemone,My pale windflower, awake, awake,” calls she.“The world expects you, and your lovers waitTo give you welcome at Spring’s open gate.”She marshals the close armies of the grass,And polishes their green blades as they passAnd all the blossoms of the fruit trees sweetAre piled in rosy shells about her feet.Within her great alembic she distillsThe dainty odor which each flower fills.Nor does she ever give to mignonetteThe perfume that belongs to violet.Nature does well whatever task she triesBecauseobedient,—there the secret lies.—May Riley Smith.
In the dark silence of her chamber lowMarch works sweeter things than mortals know.Her noiseless looms ply on with busy care,Weaving the fine cloth that the flowers wear;She sews the seams in violet’s queer hood,And paints the sweet arbutus of the wood.Out of a bit of sky’s delicious blueShe fashions hyacinths, and harebells too;And from a sunbeam makes a cowslip fair,Or spins a gown for a daffodil to wear.She pulls the cover from the crocus bedsAnd bids the sleepers lift their drowsy heads.“Come, early risers; come, anemone,My pale windflower, awake, awake,” calls she.“The world expects you, and your lovers waitTo give you welcome at Spring’s open gate.”She marshals the close armies of the grass,And polishes their green blades as they passAnd all the blossoms of the fruit trees sweetAre piled in rosy shells about her feet.Within her great alembic she distillsThe dainty odor which each flower fills.Nor does she ever give to mignonetteThe perfume that belongs to violet.Nature does well whatever task she triesBecauseobedient,—there the secret lies.
Phaëthon was the son of Apollo. One day he approached the palace of his father and begged a favor. Apollo was pleased with his youthful grace and beauty, and promised to grant his desire. Phaëthon then boldly asked the great god of the sun for permission to drive his horses for a single day.
Then did Apollo regret his hasty promise, and beg Phaëthon to ask anything but that—because it is so dangerous to drive those fiery steeds.
“You know not what you ask, my son, I am the only one who can drive the chariot of the sun safely through the heavens. Even Jupiter himself would not attempt so dangerous a task.”
But Phaëthon was bold and proud, and finally Apollo yielded. The horses were harnessed, the gates unbarred, Phaëthon seized the reins, and away they flew! The horses knew that a weak hand held them, but they were going uphill and kept well in the course. So Phaëthon grew careless, and when the zenith was reached the horses paid no heed to his guidance.
Exulting in their freedom from Apollo’s masterful hand, they galloped far from the path, now on this side, now on that.
Phaethon struggles to rein in the four horses pulling the chariotMax F. Klepper (modern).Phaëthon driving Apollo’s Chariot.
Max F. Klepper (modern).
Phaëthon driving Apollo’s Chariot.
Sometimes they came so near the earth that the leavesand grass withered, the crops were all destroyed, and the streams disappeared. Then they turned so far away that snow fell, and the people shivered and suffered from the cold.
All the people on earth were afraid, and even the gods on high Olympus wondered what was amiss with Apollo, that his horses were so unruly.
Finally Jupiter looked over the heavens, and, seeing the reckless Phaëthon, hurled a thunderbolt at him, and he fell headlong into the river Po.
Hither every day came his sisters, the Heliades, wringing their hands and weeping for their beloved brother. At length the gods changed them into poplar trees, and their tears into amber.
Phaëthon’s dearest friend, Cygnus, was continually plunging into the river, hoping to find the body of the rash youth, and he was changed into a swan. This bird now sails mournfully upon the waters, frequently dipping his head below the surface, as if still searching for his friend Phaëthon.
Wings that flutter in sunny air;Wings that dive and dip and dare;Wings of the humming bird flashing by;Wings of the lark in the purple sky;Wings of the eagle aloft, aloof;Wings of the pigeon upon the roof;Wings of the storm bird swift and free,With wild winds sweeping across the sea:Often and often a voice in me sings,—O, for the freedom, the freedom of wings!O, to winnow the air with wings;O, to float far above hurtful things—Things that weary and wear and fret;Deep in the azure to fly and forget;To touch in a moment the mountain’s crest,Or haste to the valley for home and rest;To rock with the pine tree as wild birds may;To follow the sailor a summer’s day:Over and over a voice in me sings,—O, for the freedom, the freedom of wings!Softly responsive a voice in me sings,—Thou hast the freedom, the freedom of wings;Soon as the glass a second can count,Into the heavens thy heart may mount;Hope may fly to the topmost peak;Love its nest in the vale may seek;Outspeeding the sailor, Faith’s pinions mayTouch the ends of the earth in a summer’s day.Softly responsive a voice in me sings,—Thou hast the freedom, the freedom of wings.—Mary F. Butts.
Wings that flutter in sunny air;Wings that dive and dip and dare;Wings of the humming bird flashing by;Wings of the lark in the purple sky;Wings of the eagle aloft, aloof;Wings of the pigeon upon the roof;Wings of the storm bird swift and free,With wild winds sweeping across the sea:Often and often a voice in me sings,—O, for the freedom, the freedom of wings!O, to winnow the air with wings;O, to float far above hurtful things—Things that weary and wear and fret;Deep in the azure to fly and forget;To touch in a moment the mountain’s crest,Or haste to the valley for home and rest;To rock with the pine tree as wild birds may;To follow the sailor a summer’s day:Over and over a voice in me sings,—O, for the freedom, the freedom of wings!Softly responsive a voice in me sings,—Thou hast the freedom, the freedom of wings;Soon as the glass a second can count,Into the heavens thy heart may mount;Hope may fly to the topmost peak;Love its nest in the vale may seek;Outspeeding the sailor, Faith’s pinions mayTouch the ends of the earth in a summer’s day.Softly responsive a voice in me sings,—Thou hast the freedom, the freedom of wings.—Mary F. Butts.
Wings that flutter in sunny air;Wings that dive and dip and dare;Wings of the humming bird flashing by;Wings of the lark in the purple sky;Wings of the eagle aloft, aloof;Wings of the pigeon upon the roof;Wings of the storm bird swift and free,With wild winds sweeping across the sea:Often and often a voice in me sings,—O, for the freedom, the freedom of wings!
O, to winnow the air with wings;O, to float far above hurtful things—Things that weary and wear and fret;Deep in the azure to fly and forget;To touch in a moment the mountain’s crest,Or haste to the valley for home and rest;To rock with the pine tree as wild birds may;To follow the sailor a summer’s day:Over and over a voice in me sings,—O, for the freedom, the freedom of wings!
Softly responsive a voice in me sings,—Thou hast the freedom, the freedom of wings;Soon as the glass a second can count,Into the heavens thy heart may mount;Hope may fly to the topmost peak;Love its nest in the vale may seek;Outspeeding the sailor, Faith’s pinions mayTouch the ends of the earth in a summer’s day.Softly responsive a voice in me sings,—Thou hast the freedom, the freedom of wings.
Sculpture of Mercury, balancing on one footNational Museum, Florence.Winged Mercury.
National Museum, Florence.
Winged Mercury.
Mercury seated in his chariot, which is drawn by two cockerelsRaphael (Rome).Mercury in his Chariot.
Raphael (Rome).
Mercury in his Chariot.
Mercury, or Hermes, is a very interesting god. He is the messenger of Jupiter, and has wings on his cap and sandals. He flies swifter than the wind and wears a cloak which makes him invisible. As the wind carries things away, Mercury is sometimes called the captain of thieves, and he likes to play tricks.
While walking along a river bank one day, he carelessly hit a tortoise shell, and it gave forth a musical sound. Mercury at once fashioned it into a lyre. Thismusical instrument he gave to his brother Apollo, who was so delighted with it that he gave Mercury a wonderful wand called the caduceus. When animals or people quarrel, this wand will make them friends again. One day Mercury threw it upon the ground where two snakes were fighting, and at once they twined lovingly about it, and Mercury kept them there as an emblem of the power of the wand.
The caduceus represents the gift of language; for when men quarrel and are angry, if they use this wand and talk with each other, their differences will soon disappear and they will become friends.
You will recognize the statues of Mercury by his caduceus and by his winged cap and sandals. He is sometimes represented as standing upon a tongue; for he gave to man the gift of speech, and is the god of eloquence. Mercury is also the god of commerce; for if men could not speak and converse with one another, there would be no commerce in the world.
There lay upon the ocean’s shoreWhat once a tortoise served to cover.A year and more, with rush and roar,The surf had rolled it over,Had played with it and flung it by,As wind and weather might decide it,Then tossed it high where sand drifts dryCheap burial might provide it.It rested there to bleach or tan,The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it;With many a ban the fishermanHad stumbled o’er and spurned it;And there the fisher girl would stay,Conjecturing with her brotherHow in their play the poor estrayMight serve some use or other.So there it lay, through wet and dry,As empty as the last new sonnet,Till by and by came Mercury,And, having mused upon it,“Why, here,” cried he, “the thing of thingsIn shape, material, and dimensions!Give it but strings, and lo, it sings,A wonderful invention!”So said, so done; the chords he strained,And, as his fingers o’er them hovered,The shell disdained a soul had gained,The lyre had been discovered.O empty world that round us lies,Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken,Brought we but eyes like Mercury’s,In thee what songs should waken!—James Russell Lowell.
There lay upon the ocean’s shoreWhat once a tortoise served to cover.A year and more, with rush and roar,The surf had rolled it over,Had played with it and flung it by,As wind and weather might decide it,Then tossed it high where sand drifts dryCheap burial might provide it.It rested there to bleach or tan,The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it;With many a ban the fishermanHad stumbled o’er and spurned it;And there the fisher girl would stay,Conjecturing with her brotherHow in their play the poor estrayMight serve some use or other.So there it lay, through wet and dry,As empty as the last new sonnet,Till by and by came Mercury,And, having mused upon it,“Why, here,” cried he, “the thing of thingsIn shape, material, and dimensions!Give it but strings, and lo, it sings,A wonderful invention!”So said, so done; the chords he strained,And, as his fingers o’er them hovered,The shell disdained a soul had gained,The lyre had been discovered.O empty world that round us lies,Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken,Brought we but eyes like Mercury’s,In thee what songs should waken!—James Russell Lowell.
There lay upon the ocean’s shoreWhat once a tortoise served to cover.A year and more, with rush and roar,The surf had rolled it over,Had played with it and flung it by,As wind and weather might decide it,Then tossed it high where sand drifts dryCheap burial might provide it.
It rested there to bleach or tan,The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it;With many a ban the fishermanHad stumbled o’er and spurned it;And there the fisher girl would stay,Conjecturing with her brotherHow in their play the poor estrayMight serve some use or other.
So there it lay, through wet and dry,As empty as the last new sonnet,Till by and by came Mercury,And, having mused upon it,“Why, here,” cried he, “the thing of thingsIn shape, material, and dimensions!Give it but strings, and lo, it sings,A wonderful invention!”
So said, so done; the chords he strained,And, as his fingers o’er them hovered,The shell disdained a soul had gained,The lyre had been discovered.O empty world that round us lies,Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken,Brought we but eyes like Mercury’s,In thee what songs should waken!
A small sailing boat in rough seas near a lighthouseLe Sénéschal (modern).Carbon by Braun, Clement & Co.Storm King.
Le Sénéschal (modern).
Carbon by Braun, Clement & Co.
Storm King.
All nature is musical. If you will listen, you can hear the leaves singing sweet songs, and the reeds along the river banks join in with their voices. The brooks and the rivers sing and laugh; they are so happy shining in the golden sun, or hiding in the cool shade.
The fairies have the flowers for their musical bells, and the grasses sing softly to the dear mother earth. But the sweetest songs are the carols of the merry birds, and the songs of happy children.
The winds are often noisy, but sometimes they seem to sing a musical song. Some instruments in theorchestra, the flute and the horn, are called wind instruments. There is a simple stringed instrument, called the æolian harp. When the winds blow upon its sensitive, delicate strings, musical sounds are heard, and we say that Æolus, king of the winds, is playing upon his harp.
Long ago, the Lipari Islands, off the coast of Italy, were called the Æolian Islands. Here in a rocky cave lived Æolus and the winds, who were the children of Aurora and Æolus. All the winds were noisy and fond of strife except Zephyrus, the youngest. Æolus kept them fastened in the rocky cave, generally letting out but one at a time. They were always rushing to the iron doors, quarreling and fighting among themselves, and begging Æolus to let them out of the narrow cave.
Whenever one of the gods wished a storm at sea, he would ask Æolus to release his sons; they would rush out of the cave, sweeping over the seas in a whirlwind, raising the waves mountain high. Then the ships were in great danger from wave and rock, as the winds rolled the billows over the ships, or drove the vessels against the sharp cliffs.
Vergil, the great Latin poet, thus describes a storm raised by Æolus, at the request of Juno,—
“Æolus thus in reply: ‘It is yours, O queen, to determineWhat you may wish to accomplish; to do your command is my duty;You have procured me my place, my scepter, and Jupiter’s favor;You, too, the privilege grant to recline with the gods at their banquet;Over the tempest and storm, it is you who have made me the ruler.’Turning, he struck with his spear the side of the cavernous mountain,And, as in martial array, wherever an egress is granted,Eagerly pour forth the winds, and sweep o’er the earth in a whirlwind;Now on the sea have they fallen, and stirred to its deepest foundations;Eastward and southward together, and blasts of the gusty southwest windLash it all into a fury, and roll to the shore the vast billows.Now come the cries of the men, and the shrieks of the wind through the rigging;Then on a sudden collecting, the clouds, from the sight of the TrojansShut out the sky and the day, o’er the sea broods the darkness of midnight;Thunder resounds through the sky, the air seems ablaze with the lightning;Everything seems to portend immediate death to the heroes.”
“Æolus thus in reply: ‘It is yours, O queen, to determineWhat you may wish to accomplish; to do your command is my duty;You have procured me my place, my scepter, and Jupiter’s favor;You, too, the privilege grant to recline with the gods at their banquet;Over the tempest and storm, it is you who have made me the ruler.’Turning, he struck with his spear the side of the cavernous mountain,And, as in martial array, wherever an egress is granted,Eagerly pour forth the winds, and sweep o’er the earth in a whirlwind;Now on the sea have they fallen, and stirred to its deepest foundations;Eastward and southward together, and blasts of the gusty southwest windLash it all into a fury, and roll to the shore the vast billows.Now come the cries of the men, and the shrieks of the wind through the rigging;Then on a sudden collecting, the clouds, from the sight of the TrojansShut out the sky and the day, o’er the sea broods the darkness of midnight;Thunder resounds through the sky, the air seems ablaze with the lightning;Everything seems to portend immediate death to the heroes.”
“Æolus thus in reply: ‘It is yours, O queen, to determineWhat you may wish to accomplish; to do your command is my duty;You have procured me my place, my scepter, and Jupiter’s favor;You, too, the privilege grant to recline with the gods at their banquet;Over the tempest and storm, it is you who have made me the ruler.’Turning, he struck with his spear the side of the cavernous mountain,And, as in martial array, wherever an egress is granted,Eagerly pour forth the winds, and sweep o’er the earth in a whirlwind;Now on the sea have they fallen, and stirred to its deepest foundations;Eastward and southward together, and blasts of the gusty southwest windLash it all into a fury, and roll to the shore the vast billows.Now come the cries of the men, and the shrieks of the wind through the rigging;Then on a sudden collecting, the clouds, from the sight of the TrojansShut out the sky and the day, o’er the sea broods the darkness of midnight;Thunder resounds through the sky, the air seems ablaze with the lightning;Everything seems to portend immediate death to the heroes.”
The famous Trojan war lasted ten years. After the Greeks had captured the city, they were anxious to return to their homes in Greece. One of the heroes, the wise Ulysses, had many strange adventures on his way home from Troy. At last he and his men came in their ship to Æolia, the home of the winds, where they were welcomed and entertained by Æolus.
Æolus was so pleased with his guests that, when the time came for Ulysses to continue his journey, the god gave him a bag with all the dangerous winds shut up within it. Only one wind was not inclosed in the bag—Zephyrus, the gentle south wind, which filled the sails and bore him on his journey.
After eight days, Ulysses came in sight of Ithaca, the home he had so long desired to see. He had not slept since leaving Æolia. Now, within sight of his home, he believed that he and his ship were safe, and he yielded to his desire for rest. The sailors were very glad to see him sleep, for they wanted to know what Ulysses had in the bag he so carefully guarded. They thought it was filled with gold and precious stones.
Alas! when the avaricious sailors opened the bag, the winds rushed out in fury and drove them far from their homes. At last they were again cast upon the shores of the Æolian Islands.
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,Sails the unshadowed main,—The venturous bark that flingsOn the sweet summer wind its purpled wingsIn gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,And coral reefs lie bare,Where the cold sea maids rise to sun their streaming hair.Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl!Wrecked is the ship of pearl!And every chambered cell,Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,Before thee lies revealed,—Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!Year after year beheld the silent toilThat spread his lustrous coil;Still, as the spiral grew,He left the past year’s dwelling for the new,Stole with soft step its shining archway through,Built up its idle door,Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,Child of the wandering sea,Cast from her lap, forlorn!From thy dead lips a clearer note is bornThan ever Triton blew from wreathéd horn!While on mine ear it rings,Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,As the swift seasons roll!Leave thy low-vaulted past!Let each new temple, nobler than the last,Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,Till thou at length art free,Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!—Oliver Wendell Holmes.
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,Sails the unshadowed main,—The venturous bark that flingsOn the sweet summer wind its purpled wingsIn gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,And coral reefs lie bare,Where the cold sea maids rise to sun their streaming hair.Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl!Wrecked is the ship of pearl!And every chambered cell,Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,Before thee lies revealed,—Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!Year after year beheld the silent toilThat spread his lustrous coil;Still, as the spiral grew,He left the past year’s dwelling for the new,Stole with soft step its shining archway through,Built up its idle door,Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,Child of the wandering sea,Cast from her lap, forlorn!From thy dead lips a clearer note is bornThan ever Triton blew from wreathéd horn!While on mine ear it rings,Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,As the swift seasons roll!Leave thy low-vaulted past!Let each new temple, nobler than the last,Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,Till thou at length art free,Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!—Oliver Wendell Holmes.
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,Sails the unshadowed main,—The venturous bark that flingsOn the sweet summer wind its purpled wingsIn gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings,And coral reefs lie bare,Where the cold sea maids rise to sun their streaming hair.
Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl!Wrecked is the ship of pearl!And every chambered cell,Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,Before thee lies revealed,—Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!
Year after year beheld the silent toilThat spread his lustrous coil;Still, as the spiral grew,He left the past year’s dwelling for the new,Stole with soft step its shining archway through,Built up its idle door,Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,Child of the wandering sea,Cast from her lap, forlorn!From thy dead lips a clearer note is bornThan ever Triton blew from wreathéd horn!While on mine ear it rings,Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—
Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,As the swift seasons roll!Leave thy low-vaulted past!Let each new temple, nobler than the last,Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,Till thou at length art free,Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!
An octagonal tower with panels depicting the winds at the topAthens.Tower of the Winds.
Athens.
Tower of the Winds.
In Athens is a temple called the Tower of the Winds. There the people came to offer sacrifices to the winds, and to hold games in their honor. The Athenians felt that the winds had great power, and therefore they built this beautiful tower. The tower has eight sides, and on each side is sculptured a representation of one of the winds.
All of the winds are shown with wings, and in a flying posture. Boreas, Aquilo, and Corus are the destructive winds, and are terrible in appearance. Boreas, the north wind, is the father of storms at sea, and carries a triton’s horn. Aquilo, the northeast wind, is showeringhailstones, and Corus, the dry and parching northwest wind, has in his hand a vessel of charcoal.
The east wind, which in Greece is a pleasant wind, is carrying fruit and flowers. The rainy southeast wind, Eurus, is forming rain clouds; while Notus, the south wind, who brings the sudden storms of rain, is pouring rain from a jar. The southwest wind carries an ornament which was always placed at the stern of every ancient ship, for it was an important wind to the sailors of Greece. Zephyrus, the welcome west wind, has a lap filled with spring flowers.
The gentle Zephyrus married Flora, goddess of the springtime. Together they wander joyously over all lands, bringing happiness to the people. The south wind wakes the flowers, and as Zephyrus and Flora pass, violets, pansies, daffodils, and roses lift their pretty heads, and fill the land with beauty and fragrance.
Portrait of two young womenSaintpierre (modern).Carbon by Braun, Clement & Co.Zephyrus and Flora.
Saintpierre (modern).
Carbon by Braun, Clement & Co.
Zephyrus and Flora.
The Indians tell the story that once Mudjekeewis, a mighty hunter, killed the great bear of the mountains. Mudjekeewis found the bear asleep, and after stealthily taking off the belt of wampum which the bear wore, he smote him in the middle of his forehead and stunned him. They fought, and Mudjekeewis conquered.
When he returned home, he told of his victory, and showed the magic belt. The Indians praised him for his bravery, and said,—“Mudjekeewis shall rule over the winds of heaven. He shall be king of the winds, and shall be called Kabeyun, the West-Wind.”
Mudjekeewis has three sons—Wabun, Shawondasee, and Kabibonokka. To Wabun, young and beautiful, he gave the east wind; to Shawondasee the south wind, and the north wind to the fierce Kabibonokka.
Longfellow thus tells the story in “Hiawatha,”—
“‘Honor be to Mudjekeewis!’With a shout proclaimed the people,‘Honor be to Mudjekeewis!Henceforth he shall be the West-Wind,And hereafter and foreverShall he hold supreme dominionOver all the winds of heaven.Call him no more Mudjekeewis,Call him Kabeyun, the West-Wind!’“Thus was Mudjekeewis chosenFather of the Winds of Heaven.For himself he kept the West-Wind,Gave the others to his children;Unto Wabun gave the East-Wind,Gave the South to Shawondasee,And the North-Wind, wild and cruel,To the fierce Kabibonokka.”—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
“‘Honor be to Mudjekeewis!’With a shout proclaimed the people,‘Honor be to Mudjekeewis!Henceforth he shall be the West-Wind,And hereafter and foreverShall he hold supreme dominionOver all the winds of heaven.Call him no more Mudjekeewis,Call him Kabeyun, the West-Wind!’“Thus was Mudjekeewis chosenFather of the Winds of Heaven.For himself he kept the West-Wind,Gave the others to his children;Unto Wabun gave the East-Wind,Gave the South to Shawondasee,And the North-Wind, wild and cruel,To the fierce Kabibonokka.”—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
“‘Honor be to Mudjekeewis!’With a shout proclaimed the people,‘Honor be to Mudjekeewis!Henceforth he shall be the West-Wind,And hereafter and foreverShall he hold supreme dominionOver all the winds of heaven.Call him no more Mudjekeewis,Call him Kabeyun, the West-Wind!’
“Thus was Mudjekeewis chosenFather of the Winds of Heaven.For himself he kept the West-Wind,Gave the others to his children;Unto Wabun gave the East-Wind,Gave the South to Shawondasee,And the North-Wind, wild and cruel,To the fierce Kabibonokka.”
Wabun was the son of Mudjekeewis. He was young and beautiful. When he came from the east in the morning, his breath was fresh with the perfume of flowers, and he painted the sky with streaks of crimson and gold. He woke the deer and called the hunters, and chased the dark over hill and valley.
But Wabun was lonely in the sky, and, although the birds sang to him and the rivers and the forests shouted at his coming, he longed for a friend to be with him always.
One day, when a fog lay on the river, he looked toward the earth and saw a slender maiden walking all alone upon the meadow. She was gathering water flags and bulrushes, which grew along the margin of the river. Her eyes were as blue as two blue lakes.
Wabun loved the graceful maiden, for she was alone on the earth as he was alone in the heavens. So he drew her to his bosom, and changed her into a beautiful star.
They are still found together in the eastern sky, Wabun and the Wabun-Annung, the east wind and the morning star.
“Young and beautiful was Wabun;He it was who brought the morning,He it was whose silver arrowsChased the dark o’er hill and valley;He it was whose cheeks were paintedWith the brightest streaks of crimson,And whose voice awoke the village,Called the deer, and called the hunter.“Lonely in the sky was Wabun;Though the birds sang gaily to him,Though the wild flowers of the meadowFilled the air with odors for him,Though the forests and the riversSang and shouted at his coming,Still his heart was sad within him,For he was alone in heaven.“But one morning, gazing earthwardWhile the village still was sleeping,And the fog lay on the river,Like a ghost, that goes at sunrise,He beheld a maiden walkingAll alone upon a meadow,Gathering water flags and rushesBy a river in the meadow.“Every morning, gazing earthward,Still the first thing he beheld thereWas her blue eyes looking at him,Two blue lakes among the rushes.And he loved the lonely maiden,Who thus waited for his coming;For they both were solitary,She on earth, and he in heaven.“And he wooed her with caresses,Wooed her with his smile of sunshine,With his flattering words he wooed her,With his sighing and his singing.Gentlest whispers in the branches,Softest music, sweetest odors,Till he drew her to his bosomFolded in his robes of crimson,Till into a star he changed her,Trembling still upon his bosom;And forever in the heavensThey are seen together walkingWabun and the Wabun-Annung,Wabun and the Star of Morning.”—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
“Young and beautiful was Wabun;He it was who brought the morning,He it was whose silver arrowsChased the dark o’er hill and valley;He it was whose cheeks were paintedWith the brightest streaks of crimson,And whose voice awoke the village,Called the deer, and called the hunter.“Lonely in the sky was Wabun;Though the birds sang gaily to him,Though the wild flowers of the meadowFilled the air with odors for him,Though the forests and the riversSang and shouted at his coming,Still his heart was sad within him,For he was alone in heaven.“But one morning, gazing earthwardWhile the village still was sleeping,And the fog lay on the river,Like a ghost, that goes at sunrise,He beheld a maiden walkingAll alone upon a meadow,Gathering water flags and rushesBy a river in the meadow.“Every morning, gazing earthward,Still the first thing he beheld thereWas her blue eyes looking at him,Two blue lakes among the rushes.And he loved the lonely maiden,Who thus waited for his coming;For they both were solitary,She on earth, and he in heaven.“And he wooed her with caresses,Wooed her with his smile of sunshine,With his flattering words he wooed her,With his sighing and his singing.Gentlest whispers in the branches,Softest music, sweetest odors,Till he drew her to his bosomFolded in his robes of crimson,Till into a star he changed her,Trembling still upon his bosom;And forever in the heavensThey are seen together walkingWabun and the Wabun-Annung,Wabun and the Star of Morning.”—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
“Young and beautiful was Wabun;He it was who brought the morning,He it was whose silver arrowsChased the dark o’er hill and valley;He it was whose cheeks were paintedWith the brightest streaks of crimson,And whose voice awoke the village,Called the deer, and called the hunter.
“Lonely in the sky was Wabun;Though the birds sang gaily to him,Though the wild flowers of the meadowFilled the air with odors for him,Though the forests and the riversSang and shouted at his coming,Still his heart was sad within him,For he was alone in heaven.
“But one morning, gazing earthwardWhile the village still was sleeping,And the fog lay on the river,Like a ghost, that goes at sunrise,He beheld a maiden walkingAll alone upon a meadow,Gathering water flags and rushesBy a river in the meadow.
“Every morning, gazing earthward,Still the first thing he beheld thereWas her blue eyes looking at him,Two blue lakes among the rushes.And he loved the lonely maiden,Who thus waited for his coming;For they both were solitary,She on earth, and he in heaven.
“And he wooed her with caresses,Wooed her with his smile of sunshine,With his flattering words he wooed her,With his sighing and his singing.Gentlest whispers in the branches,Softest music, sweetest odors,Till he drew her to his bosomFolded in his robes of crimson,Till into a star he changed her,Trembling still upon his bosom;And forever in the heavensThey are seen together walkingWabun and the Wabun-Annung,Wabun and the Star of Morning.”
Shawondasee, fat and lazy, rules the south wind. He lives in the warm and pleasant south land, the land of perpetual summer. He sends us the beautiful Indian summer in November, the month of snowshoes, that we may not forget him during the long, cold winter.