Chapter 7

Fig. 58. Apollo with Hyacinthus

75. Hyacinthus.The fiery force of the Far-darter was not felt by the monsters of darkness alone. His friendship for the young and the vigorous was frequently as dangerous as it was dear to the objects of it. He was, for instance, passionately fond of a youth named Hyacinthus. The god of the silver bow accompanied the lad in his sports, carried the nets when he went fishing, led the dogs when he went to hunt, followed him in his excursions in the mountains, and neglected for him both lyre and arrows. One day they played a game of quoits; Apollo, heaving aloft the discus with strength mingled with skill, sent it high and far. Hyacinthus, excited with the sport and eager to make his throw, ran forward to seize the missile; but it bounded from the earth and struck him in the forehead. He fainted and fell. The god, as pale as himself, raised him and tried all his art to stanch the wound and retain the flitting life, but in vain. As when one has broken the stem of a lily in the garden it hangs its head and turns its flowers to the earth, so the head of the dying boy, as if too heavy for his neck, fell over on his shoulder. "Thou diest, Hyacinth," spake Phœbus,"robbed of thy youth by me. Would that I could die for thee! But since that may not be, my lyre shall celebrate thee, my song shall tell thy fate, and thou shalt become a flower inscribed with my regret." While the golden god spoke, the blood which had flowed on the ground and stained the herbage ceased to be blood; and a flower of hue more beautiful than the Tyrian sprang up, resembling the lily, save that this is purple and that silvery white. Phœbus then, to confer still greater honor, marked the petals with his sorrow, inscribing "Ai! ai!" upon them. The flower bears the name of Hyacinthus, and with returning spring revives the memory of his fate.[91]

It was said that Zephyrus (the west wind), who was also fond of Hyacinthus and jealous of his preference of Apollo, blew the quoit out of its course to make it strike Hyacinthus.

While this youth met his death by accident, another of Apollo's favorites, his own son, brought death upon himself by presumption. The story is as follows:

76. Phaëthon[2] was the son of Apollo and the nymph Clymene. One day Epaphus, the son of Jupiter and Io,[92]scoffed at the idea of Phaëthon's being the son of a god. Phaëthon complained of the insult to his mother Clymene. She sent him to Phœbus to ask for himself whether he had not been truly informed concerning his parentage. Gladly Phaëthon traveled toward the regions of sunrise and gained at last the palace of the Sun. He approached his father's presence, but stopped at a distance, for the light was more than he could bear. Phœbus Apollo, arrayed in purple, sat on a throne that glittered with diamonds. Beside him stood the Day, the Month, the Year, the Hours, and the Seasons. Surrounded by these attendants, the Sun beheld the youth dazzled with the novelty and splendor of the scene, and inquired the purpose of his errand. The youth replied, "Oh, light of the boundless world, Phœbus, my father—if thou dost yield me that name—give me some proof, I beseech thee, by which I may be known as thine!" He ceased. His father, laying aside the beams that shone around his head, bade him approach, embraced him, owned him for his son, and swore by the river Styx[93]that whatever proofhe might ask should be granted. Phaëthon immediately asked to be permitted for one day to drive the chariot of the sun. The father repented of his promise and tried to dissuade the boy by telling him the perils of the undertaking. "None but myself," he said, "may drive the flaming car of day. Not even Jupiter, whose terrible right arm hurls the thunderbolts. The first part of the way is steep and such as the horses when fresh in the morning can hardly climb; the middle is high up in the heavens, whence I myself can scarcely, without alarm, look down and behold the earth and sea stretched beneath me. The last part of the road descends rapidly and requires most careful driving. Tethys, who is waiting to receive me, often trembles for me lest I should fall headlong. Add to this that the heaven is all the time turning round and carrying the stars with it. Couldst thou keep thy course while the sphere revolved beneath thee? The road, also, is through the midst of frightful monsters. Thou must pass by the horns of the Bull, in front of the Archer, and near the Lion's jaws, and where the Scorpion stretches its arms in one direction and the Crab in another. Nor wilt thou find it easy to guide those horses, with their breasts full of fire that they breathe forth from their mouths and nostrils. Beware, my son, lest I be the donor of a fatal gift; recall the request while yet thou canst." He ended; but the youth rejected admonition and held to his demand. So, having resisted as long as he might, Phœbus at last led the way to where stood the lofty chariot.

It was of gold, the gift of Vulcan,—the axle of gold, the pole and wheels of gold, the spokes of silver. Along the seat were rows of chrysolites and diamonds, reflecting the brightness of the sun. While the daring youth gazed in admiration, the early Dawn threw open the purple doors of the east and showed the pathway strewn with roses. The stars withdrew, marshaled by the Daystar, which last of all retired also. The father, when he saw the earth beginning to glow and the Moon preparing to retire, ordered the Hours to harness up the horses. They led forth from the lofty stalls the steeds full fed with ambrosia, and attached the reins. Then the father, smearing the face of his son with a powerful unguent, made him capable of enduring the brightness of the flame. He set therays on the lad's head, and, with a foreboding sigh, told him to spare the whip and hold tight the reins; not to take the straight road between the five circles, but to turn off to the left; to keep within the limit of the middle zone and avoid the northern and the southern alike; finally, to keep in the well-worn ruts and to drive neither too high nor too low, for the middle course was safest and best.[94]

Forthwith the agile youth sprang into the chariot, stood erect, and grasped the reins with delight, pouring out thanks to his reluctant parent. But the steeds soon perceived that the load they drew was lighter than usual; and as a ship without ballast is tossed hither and thither on the sea, the chariot, without its accustomed weight, was dashed about as if empty. The horses rushed headlong and left the traveled road. Then, for the first time, the Great and Little Bears were scorched with heat, and would fain, if it were possible, have plunged into the water; and the Serpent which lies coiled round the north pole, torpid and harmless, grew warm, and with warmth felt its rage revive. Boötes, they say, fled away, though encumbered with his plow and unused to rapid motion.

When hapless Phaëthon looked down upon the earth, now spreading in vast extent beneath him, he grew pale, and his knees shook with terror. He lost his self-command and knew not whether to draw tight the reins or throw them loose; he forgot the names of the horses. But when he beheld the monstrous forms scattered over the surface of heaven,—the Scorpion extending two great arms, his tail, and his crooked claws over the space of two signs of the zodiac,—when the boy beheld him, reeking with poison and menacing with fangs, his courage failed, and the reins fell from his hands. The horses, unrestrained, went off into unknown regions of the sky in among the stars, hurling the chariot over pathless places, now up in high heaven, now down almost to the earth. The moon saw with astonishment her brother's chariot running beneath her own. The clouds began to smoke. The forest-clad mountains burned,—Athos and Taurus and Tmolus and Œte; Ida, once celebrated for fountains; the Muses' mountain Helicon, and Hæmus; Ætna, with fires within and without, andParnassus, with his two peaks, and Rhodope, forced at last to part with his snowy crown. Her cold climate was no protection to Scythia; Caucasus burned, and Ossa and Pindus, and, greater than both, Olympus,—the Alps high in air, and the Apennines crowned with clouds.

Fig. 59. The Fall of Phaëthon

Phaëthon beheld the world on fire and felt the heat intolerable. Then, too, it is said, the people of Æthiopia became black because the blood was called by the heat so suddenly to the surface; and the Libyan desert was dried up to the condition in which it remains to this day. The Nymphs of the fountains, with disheveled hair, mourned their waters, nor were the rivers safe beneath their banks; Tanaïs smoked, and Caïcus, Xanthus, and Mæander; Babylonian Euphrates and Ganges, Tagus, with golden sands, and Caÿster, where the swans resort. Nile fled away and hid his head in the desert, and there it still remains concealed. Where he used to discharge his waters through seven mouths into the sea, seven dry channels alone remained. The earth cracked open, and through the chinks light broke into Tartarus and frightened the king of shadows and his queen. The sea shrank up. Even Nereus and his wife Doris with the Nereïds, their daughters, sought the deepest caves for refuge. Thrice Neptune essayed to raise his head above the surface and thrice was driven back by the heat. Earth, surrounded as she was by waters, yet with head and shoulders bare, screening her face with her hand, looked up to heaven, and withhusky voice prayed Jupiter, if it were his will that she should perish by fire, to end her agony at once by his thunderbolts, or else to consider his own Heaven, how both the poles were smoking that sustained his palace, and that all must fall if they were destroyed.

Earth, overcome with heat and thirst, could say no more. Then Jupiter, calling the gods to witness that all was lost unless some speedy remedy were applied, thundered, brandished a lightning bolt in his right hand, launched it against the charioteer, and struck him at the same moment from his seat and from existence. Phaëthon, with his hair on fire, fell headlong, like a shooting star which marks the heavens with its brightness as it falls, and Eridanus, the great river, received him and cooled his burning frame. His sisters, the Heliades, as they lamented his fate, were turned into poplar trees on the banks of the river; and their tears, which continued to flow, became amber as they dropped into the stream. The Italian Naiads reared a tomb for him and inscribed these words upon the stone:

Driver of Phœbus' chariot, Phaëthon,Struck by Jove's thunder, rests beneath this stone.He could not rule his father's car of fire,Yet was it much so nobly to aspire.[95]

77. The Plague sent upon the Greeks before Troy.It was not, however, only by accident, or by the ill-advised action of those whom he loved, that Apollo's gifts of light and heat were turned into misfortunes. Mortals who offended him were leveled by the cruel sunstroke, by arrows of malarial venom, of manifold sickness and death.

When the host of the Achæans was encamped before Troy, the king of men, Atrides, unjustly declined to restore his captive, Chryseïs of the fair cheeks, to her father Chryses, the priest of far-darting Apollo. Then the aged Chryses went apart and prayed aloud, "Hear me, god of the silver bow, ... let the Danaans pay by thine arrows for my tears!"

So spake he in prayer; and Phœbus Apollo heard him, and came down from the peaks of Olympus wroth at heart, bearing on his shoulders his bow and covered quiver. And the arrows clanged upon his shoulders in his wrath, as the god moved; and he descended like to night. Then he sate him aloof from the ships, and let an arrow fly; and there was heard a dread clanging of the silver bow. First did he assail the mules and fleet dogs, but afterward, aiming at the men his piercing dart, he smote; and the pyres of the dead burnt continually in multitude. Nor until Agamemnon had sent back his winsome captive to her father did Apollo remove from the Danaans the loathsome pestilence.[96]

78. The Punishment of Niobeis another illustration of the swift and awful vengeance of Apollo, and also of his sister Diana. This Niobe was the daughter of a certain Tantalus, king of Phrygia, who had been received at the table of the gods by his father Jupiter. But there was a strain of ingratitude and conceit in both father and daughter. The father not only betrayed the secrets of the gods, but, to ridicule their reputed omniscience, attempted at a banquet to deceive them into eating the roasted flesh of his own son Pelops. The gods were not deceived. Pelops was restored to life,—Tantalus consigned to Tartarus. The daughter Niobe, although she owed her happy marriage with Jupiter's son Amphion, and her seven stalwart sons and seven blooming daughters, to the favor of the gods and of Latona in particular, boasted of her birth, her marriage, and her offspring, bragged of her superiority to Latona, and, on one occasion, scoffed at the annual celebration in honor of the goddess and her two children. Surveying the people of Thebes with haughty glance, she said, "What folly to prefer beings whom you have never seen to those who stand before your eyes! Will you prefer to me this Latona, the Titan's daughter, with her two children? I have seven times as many. Were I to lose some of my children, I should hardly be left as poor as Latona with her two only. Put off the laurel from your brows,—have done with this worship!" The people left the sacred services uncompleted.

Fig. 60. A Son of Niobe

The goddess was indignant. On the Cynthian mountain top she thus addressed her son and daughter: "My children, I who have been so proud of you both and have been used to holdmyself second to none of the goddesses except Juno alone, begin now to doubt whether I am indeed a goddess. I shall be deprived of my worship altogether unless you protect me." She was proceeding in this strain, but Apollo interrupted her. "Say no more," said he; "speech only delays punishment." So said Diana also. Darting through the air, veiled in clouds, they alighted on the towers of the city. Spread out before the gates was a broad plain where the youth of the city pursued their warlike sports. The sons of Niobe were there with the rest,—some mounted on spirited horses richly caparisoned, some driving gay chariots. Ismenos, the first-born, as he guided his foaming steeds was struck by an arrow from above. "Ah me!" he cried,—dropped the reins and fell lifeless. Another, hearing the sound of the bow, gave the rein to his horses and attempted to escape. The inevitable arrow overtook him as he fled. Two others, younger, stood wrestling breast to breast: one arrow pierced them both. Alphenor, an elder brother, hastened to the spot to render assistance, but fell in the act of brotherly duty. One only was left, Ilioneus. "Spare me, ye gods!" he cried, addressing all of them, in his ignorance that all needed not his supplication; and Apollo would have spared him, but the arrow had already left the string, and it was too late.

Fig 61. The Children of Niobe

When Niobe was acquainted with what had taken place, she was indignant that the gods had dared, and amazed that they had been able to do it. Her husband Amphion, overwhelmed with the blow, destroyed himself. But the mother knelt over the lifelessbodies and kissed them. Raising her pallid arms to heaven, "Cruel Latona," said she, "satiate thy hard heart while I follow to the grave my seven sons. Yet where is thy triumph? Bereaved as I am, I am still richer than thou, my conqueror." Scarce had she spoken, when the bow sounded and struck terror into all hearts except Niobe's alone. She was brave from excess of grief. Her daughters stood in garments of mourning over the biers of their dead brothers. One after another they fell, struck by arrows, beside the corpses that they were bewailing. Only one remained, whom the mother held clasped in her arms and covered, as it were, with her whole body. "Spare me one and that the youngest! Oh, spare me one of so many!" she cried; and while she spoke, that one fell dead. Desolate she sat among sons, daughters, husband, all dead, and seemed torpid with grief. The breeze moved not her hair, no color was on her cheek, her eyes glared fixed and immovable, there was no sign of life about her. Her very tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth and her veins ceased to convey the tide of life. Her neck bent not, her arms made no gesture, her foot no step. She was changed to stone, within and without. Yet tears continued to flow; and borne on awhirlwind to her native mountain, she still remains, a mass of rock from which a trickling stream flows, the tribute of her never-ending grief.[97]

Fig. 62. Niobe and her Youngest Daughter

Amid nine daughters slain by ArtemisStood Niobe; she rais'd her head aboveThose beauteous forms which had brought down the scathWhence all nine fell, rais'd it, and stood erect,And thus bespake the goddess enthroned on high:"Thou heardest, Artemis, my daily prayerThat thou wouldst guide these children in the passOf virtue, through the tangling wilds of youth,And thou didst ever guide them: was it justTo smite them for a beauty such as thine?Deserv'd they death because thy grace appear'dIn ever modest motion? 'twas thy gift,The richest gift that youth from heaven receives.True, I did boldly say they might compareEven with thyself in virgin purity:May not a mother in her pride repeatWhat every mortal said?One prayer remainsFor me to offer yet.Thy quiver holdsMore than nine arrows: bend thy bow; aim here!I see, I see it glimmering through a cloud.Artemis, thou at length art merciful:My children will not hear the fatal twang."[98]

79. The Lamentation for Linus.How the people of Argos fell under the displeasure of Apollo is told in the story of Linus, a beautiful son of Apollo and Psamathe. In fear of her father the king, Psamathe exposed the child on the mountains where, brought up by shepherds among the lambs, he was in tender youth torn to pieces by dogs. Meanwhile, Psamathe herself was driven from her father's home; wherefore Apollo sent against the land of the Argives a monster that for a season destroyed the children, but at last was slain by a noble youth named Corœbus. To appease the wrathful deity, a shrine was erected midway between Argos and Delphi; and every year Linus and his mother were bewailed in melancholy lays by the mothers and children of Argos, especially by such as had lost by death their own beloved. The fate of Linus, like that of Hyacinthus and others who succumb in the springtime of life under the excessive love of some shining deity,[99]typifies the sudden withering of herbs and flowers and of animal life,—the calves and lambs, young children too, under the fierce shafts of summer. The very name of Linus is taken from the refrainai-linon, or "woe is me," of the lament anciently sung by the country people when thus afflicted by the unhealthy heats, because of which the crops fail and the dogs go mad and tear the little lambs to pieces. In the Iliad there is a beautiful picture which shows us that the song was not reserved completely for the dog days. It is of a vineyard teeming plenteously with clusters:

And there was a pathway through it by which the vintagers might go. And maidens and striplings in childish glee bare the sweet fruit in plaited baskets. And in the midst of them a boy made pleasant music on a clear-toned viol, and sang thereto a sweet Linos-song with delicate voice; while the rest with feet falling together kept time with the music and song.[100]

Fig. 63. Æsculapius

80. Æsculapius.The Thessalian princess Coronis (or the Messenian, Arsinoë) bore to Apollo a child who was named Æsculapius. On his mother's death the infant was intrusted to the charge of Chiron, most famous of the Centaurs, himself instructed by Apollo and Diana in hunting, medicine, music, and the art of prophecy. When the sage returned to his home bearing the infant, his daughter Ocyrrhoë came forth to meet him, and at sight of the child burst into a prophetic strain, foretelling, the glory that he should achieve. Æsculapius, when grown up, became a renowned physician; in one instance he even succeeded in restoring the dead to life. Pluto resented this, and, at his request, Jupiter struck the bold physician with lightning and killed him, but after his death received him into the number of the gods.[101]

81. Apollo in Exile.Apollo, indignant at the destruction of this son, wreaked his vengeance on the innocent workmen who had made the thunderbolt. These were the Cyclopes, who had their workshop under Mount Ætna, from which the smoke and flames of their furnaces are constantly issuing. Apollo shot his arrows at the Cyclopes, a deed which so incensed Jupiter that he condemned him to serve a mortal for the space of one year. Accordingly, Apollo went into the service of Admetus, king of Thessaly, and pastured his flocks for him on the verdant banks of the riverAmphrysus. How the god lived among men, and what they thought of him, is well told in the following verses.

82. Lowell's Shepherd of King Admetus.

There came a youth upon the earth,Some thousand years ago,Whose slender hands were nothing worth,Whether to plow, or reap, or sow.Upon an empty tortoise-shellHe stretched some chords, and drewMusic that made men's bosoms swellFearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.Then King Admetus, one who hadPure taste by right divine,Decreed his singing not too badTo hear between the cups of wine:And so, well pleased with being soothedInto a sweet half-sleep,Three times his kingly beard he smoothed,And made him viceroy o'er his sheep.His words were simple words enough,And yet he used them so,That what in other mouths was roughIn his seemed musical and low.Men called him but a shiftless youth,In whom no good they saw;And yet, unwittingly, in truth,They made his careless words their law.They knew not how he learned at all,For idly, hour by hour,He sat and watched the dead leaves fall,Or mused upon a common flower.It seemed the loveliness of thingsDid teach him all their use,For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springsHe found a healing power profuse.Men granted that his speech was wise,But, when a glance they caughtOf his slim grace and woman's eyes,They laughed, and called him good-for-naught.Yet after he was dead and goneAnd e'en his memory dim,Earth seemed more sweet to live upon,More full of love, because of him.And day by day more holy grewEach spot where he had trod,Till after-poets only knewTheir first-born brother as a god.

There came a youth upon the earth,Some thousand years ago,Whose slender hands were nothing worth,Whether to plow, or reap, or sow.

Upon an empty tortoise-shellHe stretched some chords, and drewMusic that made men's bosoms swellFearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.

Then King Admetus, one who hadPure taste by right divine,Decreed his singing not too badTo hear between the cups of wine:

And so, well pleased with being soothedInto a sweet half-sleep,Three times his kingly beard he smoothed,And made him viceroy o'er his sheep.

His words were simple words enough,And yet he used them so,That what in other mouths was roughIn his seemed musical and low.

Men called him but a shiftless youth,In whom no good they saw;And yet, unwittingly, in truth,They made his careless words their law.

They knew not how he learned at all,For idly, hour by hour,He sat and watched the dead leaves fall,Or mused upon a common flower.

It seemed the loveliness of thingsDid teach him all their use,For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springsHe found a healing power profuse.

Men granted that his speech was wise,But, when a glance they caughtOf his slim grace and woman's eyes,They laughed, and called him good-for-naught.

Yet after he was dead and goneAnd e'en his memory dim,Earth seemed more sweet to live upon,More full of love, because of him.

And day by day more holy grewEach spot where he had trod,Till after-poets only knewTheir first-born brother as a god.

Fig. 64. Admetus must Die

83. Admetus and Alcestis.[102]Admetus was a suitor, with others, for the hand of Alcestis, the daughter of Pelias, who promised her to him who should come for her in a chariot drawn by lions and boars. This task Admetus performed by the assistance of his divine herdsman, and was made happy in the possession of Alcestis. But Admetus falling ill and being near to death, Apollo prevailed on the Fates to spare him on condition that some one should consent to die in his stead. Admetus, in his joy at this reprieve, thought little of the ransom, and, perhaps remembering the declarations of attachment which he had often heard from his courtiers and dependents, fancied that it would be easy to find a substitute. But it was not so. Brave warriors, who would willingly have periled their lives for theirprince, shrunk from the thought of dying for him on the bed of sickness; and old servants who had experienced his bounty and that of his house from their childhood up were not willing to lay down the scanty remnant of their days to show their gratitude. Men asked, "Why does not one of his parents do it? They cannot in the course of nature live much longer, and who can feel like them the call to rescue the life they gave from an untimely end?" But the parents, distressed though they were at the thought of losing him, shrunk from the call. Then Alcestis, with a generous self-devotion, proffered herself as the substitute. Admetus, fond as he was of life, would not have submitted to receive it at such a cost; but there was no remedy. The condition imposed by the Fates had been met, and the decree was irrevocable. As Admetus revived, Alcestis sickened, rapidly sank, and died.

Just after the funeral procession had left the palace, Hercules, the son of Jupiter and Alcmena, arrived. He, to whom no labor was too arduous, resolved to attempt her rescue. Said he:

"I will go lie in wait for Death, black-stoledKing of the corpses![103]I shall find him, sure,Drinking, beside the tomb, o' the sacrifice:And if I lie in ambuscade, and leapOut of my lair, and seize—encircle himTill one hand join the other round about—There lives not who shall pull him out from me,Rib-mauled, before he let the woman go!But even say I miss the booty,—say,Death comes not to the boltered blood,—why, then,Down go I, to the unsunned dwelling-placeOf Koré[104]and the king there,—make demand,Confident I shall bring Alkestis back,So as to put her in the hands of himMy host, that housed me, never drove me off:Though stricken with sore sorrow hid the stroke,Being a noble heart and honoring me!Who of Thessalians, more than this man, lovesThe stranger? Who that now inhabits Greece?Wherefore he shall not say the man was vileWhom he befriended,—native noble heart!"So, one look upward, as if Zeus might laughApproval of his human progeny,—One summons of the whole magnific frame,Each sinew to its service,—up he caught,And over shoulder cast the lion-shag,Let the club go,—for had he not those hands?And so went striding off, on that straight wayLeads to Larissa and the suburb tomb.Gladness be with thee, Helper of our world!I think this is the authentic sign and sealOf Godship that it ever waxes glad,And more glad, until gladness blossoms, burstsInto a rage to suffer for mankind,And recommence at sorrow: drops like seedAfter the blossom, ultimate of all.Say, does the seed scorn earth and seek the sun?Surely it has no other end and aimThan to drop, once more die into the ground,Taste cold and darkness and oblivion there:And thence rise, tree-like grow through pain to joy,More joy and most joy,—do man good again.So to the struggle off strode Herakles.

Fig. 65. Heracles

Long time the Thessalians waited and mourned. As for Herakles, no doubt they supposed him dead. When—but can it be?

... Ay, he it was advancing! In he strode,And took his stand before Admetos,—turnedNow by despair to such a quietude,He neither raised his face nor spoke, this time,The while his friend surveyed him steadily.That friend looked rough with fighting: had he strainedWorst brute to breast was ever strangled yet?Somehow, a victory—for there stood the strength,Happy, as always; something grave, perhaps;The great vein-cordage on the fret-worked front,Black-swollen, beaded yet with battle-dewThe golden hair o' the hero!—his big frameA-quiver with each muscle sinking backInto the sleepy smooth it leaped from late.Under the great guard of one arm, there leantA shrouded something, live and woman-like,Propped by the heartbeats 'neath the lion-coat.When he had finished his survey, it seemed,The heavings of the heart began subside,The helpful breath returned, and last the smileShone out, all Herakles was back again,As the words followed the saluting hand.

"Admetus," said he, "take and keep this woman, my captive, till I come thy way again." But Admetus would admit no woman into the hall that Alcestis had left empty. Then cried Herakles, "Take hold of her. See now, my friend, if she look not somewhat like that wife thou hast lost."

Ah, but the tears come, find the words at fault!There is no telling how the hero twitchedThe veil off; and there stood, with such fixed eyesAnd such slow smile, Alkestis' silent self!It was the crowning grace of that great heart,To keep back joy: procrastinate the truthUntil the wife, who had made proof and foundThe husband wanting, might essay once more,Hear, see, and feel him renovated now—Able to do now all herself had done,Risen to the height of her: so, hand in hand,The two might go together, live and die.Beside, when he found speech, you guess the speech.He could not think he saw his wife again:It was some mocking God that used the blissTo make him mad! Till Herakles must help:Assure him that no specter mocked at all;He was embracing whom he buried once,Still,—did he touch, might he address the true,True eye, true body of the true live wife?... And Herakles said little, but enough—How he engaged in combat with that kingO' the dæmons: how the field of contest layBy the tomb's self: how he sprang from ambuscade,Captured Death, caught him in that pair of hands.But all the time, Alkestis moved not onceOut of the set gaze and the silent smile;And a cold fear ran through Admetos' frame:"Why does she stand and front me, silent thus?"Herakles solemnly replied, "Not yetIs it allowable thou hear the thingsShe has to tell thee; let evanish quiteThat consecration to the lower Gods,And on our upper world the third day rise!Lead her in, meanwhile; good and true thou art,Good, true, remain thou! Practice pietyTo stranger-guests the old way! So, farewell!Since forth I fare, fulfill my urgent taskSet by the king, the son of Sthenelos."[105]

Beside, when he found speech, you guess the speech.He could not think he saw his wife again:It was some mocking God that used the blissTo make him mad! Till Herakles must help:Assure him that no specter mocked at all;He was embracing whom he buried once,Still,—did he touch, might he address the true,True eye, true body of the true live wife?... And Herakles said little, but enough—How he engaged in combat with that kingO' the dæmons: how the field of contest layBy the tomb's self: how he sprang from ambuscade,Captured Death, caught him in that pair of hands.

But all the time, Alkestis moved not onceOut of the set gaze and the silent smile;And a cold fear ran through Admetos' frame:"Why does she stand and front me, silent thus?"Herakles solemnly replied, "Not yetIs it allowable thou hear the thingsShe has to tell thee; let evanish quiteThat consecration to the lower Gods,And on our upper world the third day rise!Lead her in, meanwhile; good and true thou art,Good, true, remain thou! Practice pietyTo stranger-guests the old way! So, farewell!Since forth I fare, fulfill my urgent taskSet by the king, the son of Sthenelos."[105]

Fig. 66. The Palatine Apollo

84. Apollo, the Musician.Not only in Arcadia, Laconia, and Thessaly did Apollo care as a herdsman for the cattle of a mortal master; in Mount Ida, too, by the order of Jupiter he herded for a year the "shambling, crook-horned kine" of King Laomedon, and, playing on the lyre, aided Neptune to build the walls of Troy, just as Amphion, in his turn, had aided in the building of Thebes. Apollo's life as herdsman was spent in establishing wise laws and customs, in musical contests on the flute and the lyre, or in passages of love with nymphs and maidens of mortal mold.

85. Apollo, Pan, and Midas.[106]It is said that on a certain occasion Pan had the temerity to compare his music with that of Apollo and to challenge the god of the lyre to a trial of skill. The challenge was accepted, and Tmolus, the mountain-god, was chosen umpire. The senior took his seat and cleared away the trees from his ears to listen. At a given signal Pan blew on his pipes, and with his rustic melody gave great satisfaction to himself and his faithful follower Midas, who happened to be present. Then Tmolus turned his head towardthe sun-god, and all his trees turned with him. Apollo rose, his brow wreathed with Parnassian laurel, while his robe of Tyrian purple swept the ground. In his left hand he held the lyre and with his right hand struck the strings. Tmolus at once awarded the victory to the lyric god, and all but Midas acquiesced in the judgment. He dissented and questioned the justice of the award. Apollo promptly transformed his depraved pair of ears into those of an ass.

King Midas tried to hide his misfortune under an ample turban. But his hair-dresser found it too much for his discretion to keep such a secret; he dug a hole in the ground and, stooping down, whispered the story, and covered it up. But a thick bed of reeds springing up in the meadow began whispering the story, and has continued to do so from that day to this, every time a breeze passes over the place.

86. Shelley's Hymn of Pan.In the following verses Pan taunts Apollo as he might have done when Midas was sitting contentedly by:

From the forests and highlandsWe come, we come;From the river-girt islands,Where loud waves are dumb,Listening to my sweet pipings.The wind in the reeds and the rushes,The bees on the bells of thyme,The birds on the myrtle bushes,The cicale above in the lime,And the lizards below in the grass,Were as silent as ever old Tmolus wasListening to my sweet pipings.Liquid Peneüs was flowing,And all dark Tempe lay,In Pelion's shadow, outgrowingThe light of the dying day,Speeded by my sweet pipings.The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns,And the Nymphs of the woods and waves,To the edge of the moist river-lawns,And the brink of the dewy caves,And all that did then attend and followWere silent with love, as you now, Apollo,With envy of my sweet pipings.I sang of the dancing stars,I sang of the dædal Earth,And of Heaven—and the giant wars,And Love, and Death, and Birth,—And then I changed my pipings,—Singing how down the vale of MenalusI pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed:Gods and men, we are all deluded thus!It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed:All wept, as I think both ye now would,If envy or age had not frozen your blood,At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.

Liquid Peneüs was flowing,And all dark Tempe lay,In Pelion's shadow, outgrowingThe light of the dying day,Speeded by my sweet pipings.The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns,And the Nymphs of the woods and waves,To the edge of the moist river-lawns,And the brink of the dewy caves,And all that did then attend and followWere silent with love, as you now, Apollo,With envy of my sweet pipings.

I sang of the dancing stars,I sang of the dædal Earth,And of Heaven—and the giant wars,And Love, and Death, and Birth,—And then I changed my pipings,—Singing how down the vale of MenalusI pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed:Gods and men, we are all deluded thus!It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed:All wept, as I think both ye now would,If envy or age had not frozen your blood,At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.

87. Marsyasalso was unfortunate enough to underrate Apollo's musical ability. It seems that the flute, an invention of Minerva's, had been thrown away by that goddess because Cupid laughed at the grimaces which she made while playing it. Marsyas found the instrument, blew upon it, and elicited such ravishing sounds that he was tempted to challenge Apollo himself to a musical contest. The god, of course, triumphed, and he punished Marsyas by flaying him alive.

88. The Loves of Apollo.Beside Psamathe of Argos, Coronis of Thessaly, and the nymph Clymene, who have been already mentioned, Apollo loved the muse Calliope, who bore him Orpheus,[107]and the nymph Cyrene, whose son was Aristæus.[108]Of his relations with other maidens the following myths exist.

89. Daphne.[109]The lord of the silver bow was not always prosperous in his wooing. His first love, which, by the way, owed its origin to the malice of Cupid, was specially unfortunate. It appears that Apollo, seeing the boy playing with his bow and arrows, had tauntingly advised him to leave warlike weapons for hands worthy of them and content himself with the torch of love. Whereupon the son of Venus had rejoined, "Thine arrows may strike all things else, Apollo, but mine shall strike thee."

APOLLO AND DAPHNE

So saying, he took his stand on a rock of Parnassus, and drew from his quiver two arrows of different workmanship,—one to excite love, the other to repel it. The former was of gold and sharp pointed, the latter blunt and tipped with lead. With the leaden shaft he struck the nymph Daphne, the daughter of the river-god Peneüs, and with the golden one Apollo, through the heart. Forthwith the god was seized with love for the maiden, but she, more than ever, abhorred the thought of loving. Her delight was in woodland sports and in the spoils of the chase. Spurning all lovers, she prayed her father that she might remain always unmarried, like Diana. He consented, but, at the same time, warned her that her beauty would defeat her purpose. It was the face of this huntress maiden that Apollo saw. He saw the charming disorder of her hair, and would have arranged it; he saw her eyes bright as stars; he saw her lips, and was not satisfied with only seeing them. He longed for Daphne. He followed her; she fled swifter than the wind, nor delayed a moment at his entreaties. "Stay," said he, "daughter of Peneüs; I am not a foe. It is for love I pursue thee. I am no clown, no rude peasant. Jupiter is my father. I am lord of Delphi and Tenedos. I know all things, present and future. I am the god of song and the lyre. My arrows fly true to the mark; but alas! an arrow more fatal than mine has pierced my heart! I am the god of medicine and know the virtues of all healing plants. Alas! I suffer a malady that no balm can cure."

Back to Index Next