Chapter V

But as soon as morning broke she called Psyche again and set her a fresh task, and one full of danger: to wit, to obtain some of their golden wool from those formidable sheep which pasture along a certain river-bank; for transported with rage by the burning heat of the sun, they (as is well known) are the destruction of mortals--either by their sharp horns, their stony foreheads, or their poisonous bites. Nor could Psyche possibly have dared to encounter them, had not the gentle Spirit of the river instructed her to wait till the sun went down, when, the sheep being lulled to rest by the music of his waters, she would find the fleecy gold sticking to the branches of the shrubs. So when she easily performed this command, Aphrodite, smiling bitterly, said: “I see plainly enough that some one has helped you again. But look! Here is a fresh task. Do you see the summit of yonder high mountain? There among the rocks springs a black fountain of dusky waters which lower down becomes the river Styx, that river of desolation which divides the living from the dead. Bring me with all haste an urnful of that ice-cold fluid, nor seek it anywhere but at its source.” Thus speaking she gave her, with renewed threats, a vase of polished crystal; and Psyche, starting, hastened towards the height.

But no sooner did she arrive there than she was petrified with fear and despair, for the waves with a hoarse roar plunged down a channel between steep and lofty rocks, over which fierce dragons, to right and left, stretched out their long necks, and kept eternal watch with unwinking vigilance. And ever as they rolled along, the waters exclaimed: “Begone; mind what you do; have a care; fly, you will perish.”

So Psyche’s heart turned as cold as the waters, and she lay down in that awful place, alone and with no hope but to die. But from the gracious eye of Heaven the sorrow of the pure soul is not hid. The fierce and royal eagle, the bird of Zeus, sailing over that land espied and flew to her, and remembering all he owed to Eros pitied deeply the young wife. “Psyche,” he said, “to your unaided strength this most sacred yet most terrible fountain is utterly inaccessible. Even the gods tremble at the thought of its waters. Give me the cup.” Then snatching it from her hand, on his strong wings he sailed away, steering in and out between the rows of raging teeth and the three-forked tongues of the dragons, till he reached the spring, and filling the cup, returned, and gave it to Psyche.

Yet not even by the fulfilment of this enterprise was the anger of Aphrodite appeased. She must needs send her, even beyond the waters of Separation, into the kingdom of Death itself. With a smile, foreboding of evil, she said: “Psyche, my dear, you are a perfect sorceress, or you could never so well have performed my commands; but there is one task more I must set you. I must ask you to take this box and turn your steps to the infernal regions and the gloomy palace of Hades. Then give the box to Persephone, and say, Aphrodite asks you to send her a small portion of your beauty--enough at least to last for one day; for she has used up all her own store, in attendance on her sick son. Then return with the utmost celerity, for I must adorn myself with this beauty of Persephone, before I go to the assembly of the gods.” So saying, she gave Psyche the box, and sent her off.

Then truly the wretched girl felt assured that her end had come: for to everything mortal death is the end, and Psyche knew not but that she also was mortal. But as she was meditating how to kill herself, as indeed the shortest way to the infernal regions, there came a voice to her saying, “Do no violence to thyself, Psyche, for though indeed in this way thou mayest go to the palace of Hades, yet shalt thou thus by no means return. But listen to me. Go to Tenarus, which is by Lacedæmon, that great city of Achæa; and there, at Tenarus, you will find a cavern, which is the breathing hole of the underworld. This cavern is the threshold of the direct path leading to the palace of Hades. But before entering it take care that you provide yourself with certain things; for with empty hands it is impossible to pass through these shades. In your mouth place two pieces of money, and in each hand take a cake of barley bread well sopped in hydromel. Then go rapidly forward till you come to the dark river, where Charon demands his fee and ferries the dead in his crazy boat across to the farther shore.

Nothing even there is done without payment. To that unclean greybeard you will have to give one of the coins you carry, yet in such wise that you must let him take it with his own hand from your mouth. But while you are passing over the stagnant flood, a certain dead old man will come to the surface, and raising his corpse-like fingers entreat you to take him into the boat. Beware, however, how you do so; for even by Pity may the soul be ensnared. And when you have passed the river a little way, behold! some old women, busily weaving a web, will ask you to lend a helping hand. But still beware how you do so; for even Help is not always wise and lawful. And all these things, and others, are in reality snares, prepared for you by Aphrodite, that you may drop one of the cakes from your hand, and so never fulfil the quest you have before you. For the want of only one of these sops would surely prevent your return to the light. A huge dog (as you know) with three ferocious necks and heads, and barking with jaws of thunder, watches ever before the black palace of Persephone, and terrifies with his noise the dead, though he cannot injure them. This dog, Cerberus, you must appease with one of your sops; then, passing quickly by, you will enter the presence of Persephone herself. She will receive you kindly and courteously, and beg you to repose on a soft couch and partake of a rich banquet. But this you must not do. Seating yourself on the ground, ask for a piece of common bread and eat it; then give your message, and having got the box, bribe the fierce dog, as you return, with the other sop. After that, when you come to the ferry, let the greedy Charon take your remaining coin; and so passing his river for the second time, ascend, Psyche, to Heaven, and take your place in the choir of the celestial stars. But above all I warn you, be careful not to open or even look on the box which you carry, or to search into its hidden treasure.

In this way the voice advised her. But Psyche, at once and without delay, hastened to Tenarus, and taking her coins and her sops, ran down the infernal avenue. Then having given the ferryman his fee, and turned a deaf ear to the prayers of the floating corpse and the web-weaving old women, and slipping quickly by the sop-fed dog, she entered the palace. Here, as instructed, she refused the delicate seat and delicious food offered her, and instead sat humbly at the feet of Persephone, content with a piece of common bread. Then when she had received the box (already filled and closed) she hastened back as before to the glorious light of day.

But even here her last trial awaited her. For even after having passed through the Awful Valley in safety and returned, poor Psyche, not yet freed, was overcome by the contents of the box she carried. Seized with a desire to learn what was in it, and to partake of its store of beauty, she rashly opened it. But the box contained not a particle of beauty, but only an infernal and mortal Sleep, the image of Death from whose kingdom it was drawn: and this, being freed from its prison, immediately poured itself over her, suffusing her limbs in a dense cloud of somnolence, till she lay prostrate and without motion, and just like a senseless corpse.

And how long she might have lain no one knows, had not Eros, now recovered from his wound, and grown, even by what had happened, to greater glory and manhood than before, bethought him of his dear Psyche, and, escaping from his chamber, gone on swift wings in search of her. Nor had he flown far before he came upon her thus lying. Then quickly seeing what had happened, he carefully removed the cloud of sleep, lifting it off from her like a veil, and folding it together, shut it in its old receptacle, the box, while at the same time putting his arms round her he kissed her ardently upon the lips. Psyche thus awakened was overjoyed to behold her lover once more; and in the tumult of her emotions nearly swooned away. But Eros, reminding her how curiosity had for the second time nearly undone her, bade her now finish her task quickly; and he would attend to the rest. So Psyche, with radiant face, and looking more beautiful than ever before, took the steep ascent onward to heaven.

But Eros, flying swiftly to the very throne of Zeus, put the whole case before him, and begged his aid, for the girl and himself, against the wrath of Aphrodite. And Zeus, having given the matter full consideration, bade Hermes summon a full assembly of the gods, adding as an enforcement that if any one of them absented himself he should be fined ten thousand pieces of money. So when, owing to the fear of this penalty, the heavenly theatre was quite full, Zeus sitting on his throne, and with his arm embracing Eros, who stood by his side, spoke as follows: “Ye assembled Celestials, whose names are written in the white roll of the Muses, you are all well enough acquainted with this youth, this masterful son of mine, whom I have reared with my own hands. You know that he does not always pay even to me the reverence that is my due. You know how he fills with his intrigues the whole course of Nature, including the elements and the stars and the plants and animals of the earth, and the races of men, not even excepting the gods themselves; so that all of us, tho’ we are fain to forgive him, are entangled in his wiles, and have our fair reputations sullied. Now then, since the whole earth cries out against his adulteries, and since he himself has come to man’s estate and is no longer a child, it is fitting that order should be introduced into his ways and harmony where before was confusion. You are aware that he has made choice of a girl, and deprived her of her virginity. Let him therefore--this is our Olympian decree--hold to her, let him possess her, and embracing Psyche make her ever henceforth the object of his love. Nor do you, my daughter,” he said, turning to Aphrodite, “be offended, or afraid that your family will be disgraced by a mortal alliance; for I will now cause the marriage to be not unequal, but all in order, and agreeable to the law.” So saying, he commanded Hermes to bring Psyche to heaven; and as soon as she arrived, extending to her a cup of ambrosia, “Drink this, Psyche,” said he “and be immortal; and Eros shall never quit your embrace, but your union shall be perpetual.”

Then, without delay, a sumptuous wedding supper was served. The husband, at one end of the table, reclined with Psyche in his bosom. In like manner, at the other end, were Zeus and Hera; and after them the other gods and goddesses in their proper order. Dionysus supplied the mystic nectar; the rustic Ganymede waited upon Zeus; Hephæstus dressed the table; the Hours scattered roses and all fragrant flowers; the Graces shed love and gentleness; the Muses sang; Apollo struck the lyre; and Aphrodite danced; till at length with nightfall Ceremony was dissolved, and gaiety reigned in heaven.

Thus came Psyche by divine ordinance into the hands of Eros; and at length from a mature pregnancy a daughter was born, whose name was Joy or Gladness.

SOME EARLY VERSES

IN A CANOE

From shade to light, from light to shade,
The overbending boughs between,
I glide, as in a fairy glade,
Till the sweet summer day is made
A melody of summer green.
The meadows all are clothed with light,
As with a garment, and the heat
Swims dreamful where the grass is dight
With ox-eye daisies and the white
Of lady’s smock and meadow-sweet.
And clear-cut in the quiet air
Move large brown outlines of the cows,
That nose Earth’s verdure fresh and fair
And scatter far its perfume where
With peaceful onward push they browse.
Beside the brink the swift stream lags,
And spreads its liquid arms to cool
The golden-flowered phalanx of flags
Whereby the water-wagtail wags
Its mirrored head in many a pool.
And here a swallow lightly skims
Or strikes the broad flood, breast to breast,
And there in shady hollow swims
The lazy roach between wet rims
Of water-lilies, where they rest.
Here by an overhanging bank
The sunlit soft transparent wave
Reveals a myriad lives that prank
In giddy dance within the dank
Deep water-world which is their grave;
And there a wild rose overblown
Showers red rain on the shining way,
And the fair moving fields are sown
With countless blossoms random-thrown
And gliding downwards with the day;
And here and there a willow dips
And dallies with the dimpling plain,
But evermore the river slips
Onward--as from a maiden’s lips
Some low melodious refrain.
And with a soft and rippling sound
The little bark fleets onward too,
By bushy brake and meadow-bound,
The swimming swirling curves around,
Till in a slumbrous swoon the view
Slides swiftly shifting, and the shades
Grow longer, and the evening light
Dies, and the sunset splendour fades
Slowly against the stars of night.

CAMBRIDGE, 1869.

THE ARTIST TO HIS LADY

I put my hands together, palm to palm,
And say: Take these; and, whereso’er thou wilt
Go,--I will follow. For indeed I have
No other life than this--to follow Thee.

The lady of my love is very fair;
Often when morning rose above the rain
She waved her white hand at the window-pane,
And passed and mounted through the fields of air.

I never saw her face or felt her smile,
She seemed to pine among the haunts of men;
Till at the last I left my city den,
And followed in her footsteps for a while.

She led me where the light shines freely down,
She set me by the river-fringes green,
And turned herself, and in her face, I ween,
The glories of all worlds to me were shown.

Her marble front is not of mortal mould,
Her look is of the lands which are not seen,
Broad is her brow, somewhat austere her mien,
Yet magical her beauty to behold.

For all the friendless way hedged with offence,
For all the hours forsaken of her face,
Now to behold in peace her peerless grace
Is and remains my perfect recompense.

CAMBRIDGE, 1871.

APHRODITE

I

Once, when as ever since the world began,
Dawn touched the silver level of the sea,
And like a golden shield of growing span
Crept on the land of twilight stealthily;
The Sun, yet sunk below his eastern lea,
Whence all the heavenly limits he could mark,
As Perseus through Medusa’s locks, in glee
Shot all his shining fingers through the Dark,
And once more laid the monster motionless and stark.

II

In that day for the inhabitants of Earth
And Heaven, moving in darkness heretofore,
A vision of high beauty came to birth
Amid the foam of Ocean’s eastern shore:
Such as the Gods, who tread their golden floor,
And mortals, dwellers in the orange grove
Domed with aerial blue, in all their lore
Feigned not in earth below or sky above,
Yet, seeing, made the queen and regent of their love.

III

For while the waves danced onward o’er the deep,
As at the first day bright and bluely clear,
And morning mounting up the saffron steep
In opaline pure splendour did appear
Pavilioning with flame the ocean-sphere,
A mist shot upward from the shining main,
A deep blush brightened through it, like a tear
That trembles on a rosebud after rain
And glows with heightened hue on what it cannot stain.

IV

One cloud-like moment in the air it hung;
And then the Sun, in eastern state confest,
Great level arms along the ocean flung,
Giving to each swart wave a golden crest,
And let one finger on the foambell rest,
Which like a hollow fretted crystalline
Of some rich secret rudely dispossessed,
Sundered and parted in the bright sunshine,
Showing the Foamborn in her beauty made divine.

V

A sunbow bent above her for a sign,
The spray embowered her in brilliant rain,
Her rosy feet upon the hyaline
Danced lightly like rose-petals o’er a plain;
Heaven was her canopy, a lofty fane
For incense and for music and high mirth,
Her laughing eyes, turned sunward, did detain
As in a mirror, all the smiles of Earth
Made happier because of beauty’s perfect birth.

VI

With one hand half uplifted did she hold
Her fair locks from her in a shining band,
As if to match the sunlight with their gold
Glittering with ocean-dew; the other hand
Sustained a robe sea-woven of glaucous strand,
Which veiled her limbs as softly as the moon
Glimmers where dawn-illumined mountains stand
Rosy in snow, or as in leafy June
The glowing foliage holds yet hides the hot midnoon.

VII

And where she stood the waves on every side
Fell from her into many a hollow space
And fair concavity, as though they tried
To keep the impress of her rounded grace
In inverse beauty; like a crystal case,
Broken to free some glory of art, they lay,
But shifting ever as to catch a trace
Of that fair model, till in fair dismay
They spread and died upon the distance far away.

VIII

For with divine consent from arm to arm,
From breast to brow, the lines of beauty run
And shift and flow with ever-changing charm
Which nothing can detain beneath the sun;
And like a silver fount that seems to shun
Even momentary rest, but ever flows
In wasteful beauty till the day is done,
Lovely in loss, since loveless in repose,
So rich in love’s regret fair Aphrodite rose.

IX

And Neptune’s children from the emerald gloom
Of ocean caverns, in a boisterous pack
Played round about her path of roseate bloom--
Sea-nymph and Triton in a foamy track,
With winds and water-sprites and cloudy rack
Of morning, and the mountains seen afar--
Orbed in one onward course which grew not slack
Till Venus, mounting on her dove-drawn car,
Went heavenward through the blue vault like a glistening star.