Poetical Works of Robert Bridges, Volume 1

Part 7

Chapter 74,113 wordsPublic domain

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

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

But as ill tidings will their truth assure Without more witness than their fatal sense, So, since was nothing bitterer to endure, The injured goddess guess’d the full offence: And doubted only whether first to smite Or Psyche for her new presumptuous flight, Or Eros for his disobedience.

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

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

‘Thou too to burn with love, and love of her Whom I did hate; and to thy bed to take My rival, that my trusted officer Might of mine enemy my daughter make! Dost thou then think my love for thee so fond, And miserably doting, that the bond By such dishonour strainèd will not break?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For having purposed she would hold no truce With Psyche or her son, ’twas in her mind To go forthwith unto the throne of Zeus, And beg that Hermes might be sent to find The wanderer; and secure that in such quest He would not fail, she ponder’d but how best She might inflict her vengeance long-design’d:

OCTOBER

Heavy meanwhile at heart, with bruisèd feet Was Psyche wandering many nights and days Upon the paths of hundred-citied Crete, And chose to step the most deserted ways; Being least unhappy when she went unseen; Since else her secret sorrow had no screen From the plain question of men’s idle gaze.

Yet wheresoe’er she went one hope she had; Like mortal mourners, who ’gainst reason strong Hope to be unexpectedly made glad With sight of their dead friends, so much they long; So she for him, whom loss a thousandfold Endear’d and made desired; nor could she hold He would not turn and quite forgive her wrong.

Wherefore her eager eyes in every place Lookt for her lover; and ’twixt hope and fear She follow’d oft afar some form of grace, In pain alike to lose or venture near. And still this thought cheer’d her fatigue, that he, Or on some hill, or by some brook or tree, But waited for her coming to appear.

And then for comfort many an old love-crost And doleful ditty would she gently sing, Writ by sad poets of a lover lost, Now sounding sweeter for her sorrowing: _Echo, sweet Echo, watching up on high, Say hast thou seen to-day my love go by, Or where thou sittest by thy mossy spring?_

_Or say ye nymphs, that from the crystal rills, When ye have bathed your limbs from morn till eve, Flying at midnight to the bare-topt hills, Beneath the stars your mazy dances weave, Say, my deserter whom ye well may know By his small wings, his quiver, and his bow, Say, have ye seen my love, whose loss I grieve?_

Till climb’d one evening on a rocky steep Above the plain of Cisamos, that lay, Robb’d of its golden harvest, in the deep Mountainous shadows of the dying day, She saw a temple, whose tall columns fair Recall’d her home; and ‘O if thou be there, My love,’ she cried, ‘fly not again away.’

Swiftly she ran, and entering by the door She stood alone within an empty fane Of great Demeter: and, behold, the floor Was litter’d with thank-offerings of grain, With wheat and barley-sheaves together heapt In holy harvest-home of them that reapt The goddess’ plenteous gifts upon the plain;

And on the tithe the tackle of the tithe Thrown by in such confusion, as are laid Upon the swath sickle, and hook, and scythe, When midday drives the reapers to the shade. And Psyche, since had come no priestess there To trim the temple, in her pious care Forgat herself, and lent her duteous aid.

She drew the offerings from the midst aside, And piled the sheaves at every pillar’s base; And sweeping therebetween a passage wide, Made clear of corn and chaff the temple space: As countrymen who bring their wheat to mart, Set out their show along the walls apart By their allotted stations, each in place;

Thus she, and felt no weariness,--such strength Hath duty to support our feeble frame,— Till all was set in order, and at length Up to the threshold of the shrine she came: When lo! before her face with friendly smile, Tall as a pillar of the peristyle, The goddess stood reveal’d, and call’d her name.

‘Unhappy Psyche,’ said she, ‘know’st thou not How Aphrodite to thy hurt is sworn? And thou, thy peril and her wrath forgot, Spendest thy thought my temple to adorn. Take better heed!’--And Psyche, at the voice Even of so little comfort, gan rejoice, And at her feet pour’d out this prayer forlorn.

‘O Gracious giver of the golden grain, Hide me, I pray thee, from her wrath unkind; For who can pity as canst thou my pain, Who wert thyself a wanderer, vex’d in mind For loss of thy dear Corè once, whenas, Ravisht to hell by fierce Agesilas, Thou soughtest her on earth and coudst not find.

‘How coud thy feet bear thee to western night, And where swart Libyans watch the sacred tree, And thrice to ford o’er Achelous bright, And all the streams of beauteous Sicily? And thrice to Enna cam’st thou, thrice, they tell, Satest athirst by Callichorus’ well, Nor tookest of the spring to comfort thee.

‘By that remember’d anguish of thine heart, Lady, have pity even on me, and show Where I may find my love; and take my part For peace, I pray, against my cruel foe: Or if thou canst not from her anger shield, Here let me lie among the sheaves conceal’d Such time till forth I may in safety go.’

Demeter answer’d, ‘Nay, though thou constrain My favour with thy plea, my help must still Be hidden, else I work for thee in vain To thwart my mighty sister in her will. Thou must fly hence: Yet though I not oppose, Less will I aid her; and if now I close My temple doors to thee, take it not ill.’

Then Psyche’s hope founder’d; as when a ship, The morrow of the gale can hardly ride The swollen seas, fetching a deeper dip At every wave, and through her gaping side And o’er her shattered bulwark ever drinks, Till plunging in the watery wild she sinks, To scoop her grave beneath the crushing tide:

So with each word her broken spirit drank Its doom; and overwhelm’d with deep despair She turn’d away, and coming forth she sank Silently weeping on the temple stair, In midmost night, forspent with long turmoil: But sleep, the gracious pursuivant of toil, Came swiftly down, and nursed away her care.

And when the sun awaked her with his beams She found new hope, that still her sorrow’s cure Lay with the gods, who in her morning dreams Had sent her comfort in a vision sure; Wherein the Cretan-born, almightiest god, Cloud-gathering Zeus himself had seem’d to nod, And bid her with good heart her woes endure.

So coming that same day unto a shrine Of Hera, she took courage and went in: And like to one that to the cell divine For favour ventures or a suit to win, She drew anigh the altar, from her face Wiping the tears, ere to the heavenly grace, As thus she pray’d, she would her prayer begin.

‘Most honour’d Lady, who from ancient doom Wert made heaven’s wife, and art on earth besought With gracious happiness of all to whom Thy holy wedlock hath my burden brought, Save me from Aphrodite’s fell pursuit, And guard unto the birth Love’s hapless fruit, Which she for cruel spite would bring to nought.

‘As once from her thou wert not shamed to take Her beauty’s zone, thy beauty to enhance; For which again Zeus loved thee, to forsake His warlike ire in faithful dalliance; Show me what means may win my Love to me, Or how that I may come, if so may be, Within the favour of his countenance.

‘If there be any place for tears or prayer, If there be need for succour in distress, Now is the very hour of all despair, Here is the heart of grief and bitterness. Motherly pity, bend thy face and grant One beam of ruth to thy poor suppliant, Nor turn me from thine altar comfortless.’

Even as she pray’d a cloud spread through the cell, And ’mid the wreathings of the vapour dim The goddess grew in glory visible, Like some barbaric queen in festal trim; Such the attire and ornaments she wore, When o’er the forgèd threshold of the floor Of Zeus’s house she stept to visit him.

From either ear, ring’d to its piercèd lobe A triple jewel hung, with gold enchas’t; And o’er her breasts her wide ambrosial robe With many a shining golden clasp was brac’t; The flowering on its smooth embroider’d lawn Gather’d to colour where the zone was drawn In fringe of golden tassels at her waist.

Her curling hair with plaited braid and brail, Pendant or loop’d about her head divine, Lay hidden half beneath a golden veil, Bright as the rippling ocean in sunshine: And on the ground, flashing whene’er she stept, Beneath her feet the dazzling lightnings lept From the gold network of her sandals fine.

Thus Hera stood in royal guise bedeckt Before poor Psyche on the stair that knelt, Whose new-nursed hope at that display was checkt, And all her happier thoughts gan fade and melt. She saw no kindness in such haughty mien, And venturing not to look upon the queen, Bow’d down in woe to hear her sentence dealt.

And thus the goddess spake, ‘In vain thou suest, Most miserable Psyche; though my heart Be full of hate for her whose hate thou ruest, And pride and pity move me to thy part: Yet not till Zeus make known his will, coud I, Least of the blameless gods that dwell on high, Assist thee, wert thou worthier than thou art.

‘But know if Eros love thee, that thy hopes Should rest on him; and I would bid thee go Where in his mother’s house apart he mopes Grieving for loss of thee in secret woe: For should he take thee back, there is no power In earth or heaven will hurt thee from that hour, Nay, not if Zeus himself should prove thy foe.’

Thus saying she was gone, and Psyche now Surprised by comfort rose and went her way, Resolved in heart, and only wondering how ’Twas possible to come where Eros lay; Since that her feet, however she might roam. Could never travel to the heavenly home Of Love, beyond the bounds of mortal day:

Yet must she come to him. And now ’twas proved How that to Lovers, as is told in song, Seeking the way no place is far removed; Nor is there any obstacle so strong, Nor bar so fix’d that it can hinder them: And how to reach heaven’s gate by stratagem Vex’d not the venturous heart of Psyche long.

To face her enemy might well avail: Wherefore to Cypris’ shrine her steps she bent, Hoping the goddess in her hate might hale Her body to the skies for punishment, Whate’er to be; yet now her fiercest wrath Seem’d happiest fortune, seeing ’twas the path Whereby alone unto her love she went.

NOVEMBER

But Aphrodite to the house of Zeus Being bound, bade beckon out her milkwhite steeds, Four doves, that ready to her royal use In golden cages stood and peck’d the seeds: Best of the nimble air’s high-sailing folk That wore with pride the marking of her yoke, And cooed in envy of her gentle needs.

These drew in turn her chariot, when in state Along the heaven with all her train she fared; And oft in journeying to the skiey gate Of Zeus’s palace high their flight had dared, Which darkest vapour and thick glooms enshroud Above all else in the perpetual cloud, Wherethro’ to mount again they stood prepared,

Sleeking their feathers, by her shining car; The same Hephæstos wrought for her, when he, Bruised in his hideous fall from heaven afar, Was nursed by Thetis, and Eurynomè, The daughter of the ever-refluent main; With whom he dwelt till he grew sound again, Down in a hollow cave beside the sea:

And them for kindness done was prompt to serve, Forging them brooches rich in make and mode, Earrings, and supple chains of jointed curve, And other trinkets, while he there abode: And none of gods or men knew of his home, But they two only; and the salt sea-foam To and fro past his cavern ever flow’d.

’Twas then he wrought this work within the cave, Emboss’d with rich design, a moonèd car; And when return’d to heaven to Venus gave, In form imagined like her crescent star; Which circling nearest earth, maketh at night To wakeful mortal men shadow and light Alone of all the stars in heaven that are.

Two slender wheels it had, with fretted tires Of biting adamant, to take firm hold Of cloud or ether; and their whirling fires Threw off the air in halo where they roll’d: And either nave that round the axle turn’d A ruby was, whose steady crimson burn’d Betwixt the twin speed-mingling fans of gold.

Thereon the naked goddess mounting, shook The reins; whereat the doves their wings outspread. And rising high their flight to heaven they took: And all the birds, that in those courts were bred, Of her broad eaves the nested families, Sparrows and swallows, join’d their companies Awhile and twitter’d to her overhead.

But onward she with fading tracks of flame Sped swiftly, till she reacht her journey’s end: And when within the house of Zeus she came, She pray’d the Sire of Heaven that he would lend Hermes, the Argus-slayer, for her hest; And he being granted her at her request, She went forthwith to seek him and to send.

Who happ’d within the palace then to wait Upon the almighty pleasure; and her tale Was quickly told, and he made answer straight That he would find the truant without fail; Asking the goddess by what signs her slave Might best be known, and what the price she gave For capture, or admitted for the bail.

All which he took his silver stile to write In letters large upon a waxèd board; Her age and name, her colour, face and height, Her home, and parentage, and the reward: And then read o’er as ’twas to be proclaim’d. And she took oath to give the price she named, Without demur, when Psyche was restored.

Then on his head he closely set his cap With earèd wings erect, and o’er his knee He cross’d each foot in turn to prove the strap That bound his wingèd sandals, and shook free His chlamys, and gat up, and in his hand Taking his fair white-ribbon’d herald’s wand, Lept forth on air, accoutred cap-a-pè.

And piloting along the mid-day sky, Held southward, till the narrow map of Crete Lay like a fleck in azure ’neath his eye; When down he came, and as an eagle fleet Drops in some combe, then checks his headlong stoop With wide-flung wing, wheeling in level swoop To strike the bleating quarry with his feet,

Thus he alighted; and in every town In all the isle before the close of day Had cried the message, which he carried down, Of Psyche, Aphrodite’s runaway; That whosoever found the same and caught, And by such time unto her temple brought, To him the goddess would this guerdon pay:

SIX HONIED KISSES FROM HER ROSY MOUTH WOULD CYTHEREA GIVE, AND ONE BESIDE TO QUENCH AT HEART FOR AYE LOVE’S MORTAL DROUTH: BUT UNTO HIM THAT HID HER, WOE BETIDE! Which now was on all tongues, and Psyche’s name Herself o’erheard, or ever nigh she came To Aphrodite’s temple where she hied.

When since she found her way to heaven was safe, She only wisht to make it soon and sure; Nor fear’d to meet the goddess in her chafe, So she her self-surrender might secure, And not be given of other for the price; Nor was there need of any artifice Her once resplendent beauty to obscure.

For now so changed she was by heavy woe, That for the little likeness that she bore To her description she was fear’d to go Within the fane; and when she stood before The priestess, scarce coud she with oath persuade That she was Psyche, the renownèd maid, Whom men had left the temple to adore.

But when to Hermes she was shown and given, He took no doubt, but eager to be quit, And proud of speed, return’d with her to heaven, And left her with the proclamation writ, Hung at her neck, the board with letters large, At Aphrodite’s gate with those in charge; And up whence first he came made haste to flit.

But hapless Psyche fell, for so it chanced, To moody SYNETHEA’S care, the one Of Aphrodite’s train whom she advanced To try the work abandon’d by her son. Who by perpetual presence made ill end Of good or bad; though she coud both amend, And merit praise for work by her begun.

But she to better thought her heart had shut, And proved she had a spite beyond compare: Nor coud the keenest taunts her anger glut, Which she when sour’d was never wont to spare: And now she mock’d at Psyche’s shame and grief, As only she might do, and to her chief Along the courtyard dragg’d her by the hair.

Nor now was Aphrodite kinder grown: Having her hated rival in her power, She laught for joy, and in triumphant tone Bade her a merry welcome to her bower: ‘’Tis fit indeed daughters-in-law should wait Upon their mothers; but thou comest late, Psyche; I lookt for thee before this hour.

‘And yet,’ thus gave she rein to jeer and gibe, ‘Forgive me if I held thee negligent, Or if accustom’d vanity ascribe An honour to myself that was not meant. Thy lover is it, who so dearly prized The pretty soul, then left her and despised? To him more like thy heavenward steps were bent:

‘Nor without reason: Zeus, I tell thee, swoon’d To hear the story of the drop of oil, The revelation and the ghastly wound: My merriment is but my fear’s recoil. But if my son was unkind, thou shalt see How kind a goddess can his mother be To bring thy tainted honour clear of soil.’

And so, to match her promise with her mirth, Two of her ministers she call’d in ken, That work the melancholy of the earth; MERIMNA that with care perplexes, when The hearts of mortals have the gods forgot, And LYPÈ, that her sorrow spares them not, When mortals have forgot their fellow men.

These, like twin sharks that in a fair ship’s wake Swim constant, showing ’bove the water blue Their shearing fins, and hasty ravin make Of overthrow or offal, so these two On Aphrodite’s passing follow hard; And now she offer’d to their glut’s regard Sweet Psyche, with command their wont to do.

But in what secret chamber their foul task These soul-tormentors plied, or what their skill, Pity of tender nature may not ask, Nor poet stain his rhyme with such an ill. But they at last themselves turn’d from their rack, Weary of cruelty, and led her back, Saying that further torture were to kill.

Then when the goddess saw her, more she mockt, ‘Art thou the woman of the earth,’ she said, ‘That hast in sorceries mine Eros lockt, And stood thyself for worship in my stead? Looking that I should pity thee, or care For what illicit offspring thou mayst bear; Or let thee to that god my son be wed?