Therewith down by the wayside did she sit
 And turned the box round, long regarding it;
 But at the last, with trembling hands, undid
 The clasp, and fearfully raised up the lid;
 But what was there she saw not, for her head
 Fell back, and nothing she rememberèd
 Of all her life, yet nought of rest she had,
 The hope of which makes hapless mortals glad;
 For while her limbs were sunk in deadly sleep
 Most like to death, over her heart 'gan creep
 Ill dreams; so that for fear and great distress
 She would have cried, but in her helplessness
 Could open not her mouth, or frame a word.[130]

But Cupid, now recovered from his wound, slipped through a crack in the window of his chamber, flew to the spot where his beloved lay, gathered up the sleep from her body and inclosed it again in the box, then waked Psyche with the touch of an arrow. "Again," said he, "hast thou almost perished by thy curiosity. But now perform the task imposed upon thee by my mother, and I will care for the rest."

Fig. 76. Psyche and Cupid on Mount Olympus

From the painting by Thumann

Then Cupid, swift as lightning penetrating the heights of heaven, presented himself before Jupiter with his supplication. Jupiter lent a favoring ear and pleaded the cause of the lovers with Venus. Gaining her consent, he ordered Mercury to convey Psyche to the heavenly abodes. On her advent, the king of the immortals, handing her a cup of ambrosia, said, "Drink this, Psyche, and be immortal. Thy Cupid shall never break from the knot in which he is tied; these nuptials shall indeed be perpetual."

Thus Psyche was at last united to Cupid; and in due season a daughter was born to them whose name was Pleasure.

The allegory of Cupid and Psyche is well presented in the following lines:

They wove bright fables in the days of old,
 When reason borrowed fancy's painted wings;
 When truth's clear river flowed o'er sands of gold,
 And told in song its high and mystic things!
 And such the sweet and solemn tale of her
 The pilgrim-heart, to whom a dream was given,
 That led her through the world,—Love's worshiper,—
 To seek on earth for him whose home was heaven!

EROS WITH BOW

In the full city,—by the haunted fount,—
 Through the dim grotto's tracery of spars,—
 'Mid the pine temples, on the moonlit mount,
 Where silence sits to listen to the stars;
 In the deep glade where dwells the brooding dove,
 The painted valley, and the scented air,
 She heard far echoes of the voice of Love,
 And found his footsteps' traces everywhere.
But never more they met! since doubts and fears,
 Those phantom-shapes that haunt and blight the earth,
 Had come 'twixt her, a child of sin and tears,
 And that bright spirit of immortal birth;
 Until her pining soul and weeping eyes
 Had learned to seek him only in the skies;
 Till wings unto the weary heart were given,
 And she became Love's angel bride in heaven![131]

The story of Cupid and Psyche first appears in the works of Apuleius, a writer of the second century of our era. It is therefore of much more recent date than most of the classic myths.

102. Keats' Ode to Psyche. To this fact allusion is made in the following poem:

O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
 By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
 And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
 Even into thine own soft-conchèd ear:
 Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see
 The wingèd Psyche with awakened eyes?
 I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly,
 And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
 Saw two fair creatures, couchèd side by side
 In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof
 Of leaves and tumbled blossoms, where there ran
 A brooklet, scarce espied!
'Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
 Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,
 They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;
 Their arms embracèd, and their pinions, too;
 Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu,
 As if disjoinèd by soft-handed slumber,
 And ready still past kisses to outnumber
 At tender eye-dawn of Aurorean love:
 The wingèd boy I knew:
 But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
 His Psyche true!
O latest born and loveliest vision far
 Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!
 Fairer than Phœbe's sapphire-regioned star,
 Or Vesper, amorous glowworm of the sky;
 Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
 Nor altar heaped with flowers;
 Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan
 Upon the midnight hours;
 No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet
 From chain-swung censer teeming;
 No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
 Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.
O brightest! though too late for antique vows
 Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,
 When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
 Holy the air, the water, and the fire;
 Yet even in these days so far retired
 From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
 Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
 I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.
 So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
 Upon the midnight hours;
 Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
 From swingèd censer teeming,
 Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
 Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.
Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
 In some untrodden region of my mind,
 Where branchèd thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
 Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
 Far, far around shall those dark clustered trees
 Fledge the wild-ridgèd mountains steep by steep;
 And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds and bees,
 The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep;
 And in the midst of this wide quietness
 A rosy sanctuary will I dress
 With the wreathèd trellis of a working brain,
 With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
 With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
 Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same;
 And there shall be for thee all soft delight
 That shadowy thought can win,
 A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
 To let the warm Love in!

The loves of the devotees of Venus are as the sands of the sea for number. Below are given the fortunes of a few: Hippomenes, Hero, Pygmalion, Pyramus, and Phaon. The favor of the goddess toward Paris, who awarded her the palm of beauty in preference to Juno and Minerva, will occupy our attention in connection with the story of the Trojan War.

Fig. 77. Artemis of Gabii

103. Atalanta's Race.[132] Atalanta, the daughter of Schœneus of Bœotia, had been warned by an oracle that marriage would be fatal to her happiness. Consequently she fled the society of men and devoted herself to the sports of the chase. Fair, fearless, swift, and free, in beauty and in desire she was a Cynthia,—of mortal form and with a woman's heart. To all suitors (for she had many) she made answer: "I will be the prize of him only who shall conquer me in the race; but death must be the penalty of all who try and fail." In spite of this hard condition some would try. Of one such race Hippomenes was to be judge. It was his thought, at first, that these suitors risked too much for a wife. But when he saw Atalanta lay aside her robe for the race with one of them, he changed his mind and began to swell with envy of whomsoever seemed likely to win.

The virgin darted forward. As she ran she looked more beautiful than ever. The breezes gave wings to her feet; her hair flew over her shoulders, and the gay fringe of her garment fluttered behind her. A ruddy hue tinged the whiteness of her skin, such as a crimson curtain casts on a marble wall. Her competitor was distanced and was put to death without mercy. Hippomenes, not daunted by this result, fixed his eyes on the virgin and said, "Why boast of beating those laggards? I offer myself for the contest." Atalanta looked at him with pity in her face and hardly knew whether she would rather conquer so goodly a youth or not. While she hesitated, the spectators grew impatient for the contest and her father prompted her to prepare. Then Hippomenes addressed a prayer to Cypris: "Help me, Venus, for thou hast impelled me." Venus heard and was propitious.

Fig. 78. Atalanta's Race

From the painting by Poynter

She gathered three golden apples from the garden of her temple in her own island of Cyprus and, unseen by any, gave them to Hippomenes, telling him how to use them. Atalanta and her lover were ready. The signal was given.

They both started; he, by one stride, first,
 For she half pitied him so beautiful,
 Running to meet his death, yet was resolved
 To conquer: soon she near'd him, and he felt
 The rapid and repeated gush of breath
 Behind his shoulder.
 From his hand now dropt
 A golden apple: she lookt down and saw
 A glitter on the grass, yet on she ran.
 He dropt a second; now she seem'd to stoop:
 He dropt a third; and now she stoopt indeed:
 Yet, swifter than a wren picks up a grain
 Of millet, rais'd her head: it was too late,
 Only one step, only one breath, too late.
 Hippomenes had toucht the maple goal
 With but two fingers, leaning pronely forth.
 She stood in mute despair; the prize was won.
 Now each walkt slowly forward, both so tired,
 And both alike breathed hard, and stopt at times.
 When he turn'd round to her, she lowered her face
 Cover'd with blushes, and held out her hand,
 The golden apple in it.
 "Leave me now,"
 Said she, "I must walk homeward."
 He did take
 The apple and the hand.
 "Both I detain,"
 Said he, "the other two I dedicate
 To the two Powers that soften virgin hearts,
 Eros and Aphrodite; and this one
 To her who ratifies the nuptial vow."
 She would have wept to see her father weep;
 But some God pitied her, and purple wings
 (What God's were they?) hovered and interposed.[133]

But the oracle was yet to be fulfilled. The lovers, full of their own happiness, after all, forgot to pay due honor to Aphrodite, and the goddess was provoked at their ingratitude. She caused them to give offense to Cybele. That powerful goddess took from them their human form: the huntress heroine, triumphing in the blood of her lovers, she made a lioness; her lord and master a lion,—and yoked them to her car, where they are still to be seen in all representations in statuary or painting of the goddess Cybele.

104 Hero and Leander were star-crossed lovers of later classical fiction.[134] Although their story is not of supernatural beings, or of events necessarily influenced by supernatural agencies, and therefore not mythical in the strict sense of the word, it deserves to be included here both because of its pathetic beauty and its long literary tradition. The poet Marlowe puts the story into English thus:

On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood,
 In view and opposite two cities stood,
 Sea-borderers, disjoin'd by Neptune's might
 The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight.
 At Sestos Hero dwelt; Hero the fair,
 Whom young Apollo courted for her hair,
 And offer'd as a dower his burning throne,
 Where she should sit, for men to gaze upon....
 Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pin'd,
 And, looking in her face, was strooken blind.
 But this is true: so like was one the other,
 As he imagined Hero was his mother;
 And oftentimes into her bosom flew,
 About her naked neck his bare arms threw,
 And laid his childish head upon her breast,
 And, with still panting rockt, there took his rest.

In Abydos dwelt the manly Leander, who, as luck would have it, bethought himself one day of the festival of Venus in Sestos, and thither fared to do obeisance to the goddess.

On this feast-day,—O cursèd day and hour!—
 Went Hero through Sestos, from her tower
 To Venus' temple, where unhappily,
 As after chanc'd, they did each other spy.
 So fair a church as this had Venus none;
 The walls were of discolored jasper-stone, ...
 And in the midst a silver altar stood:
 There Hero, sacrificing turtle's blood,
 Vail'd to the ground, veiling her eyelids close;
 And modestly they opened as she rose:
 Thence flew Love's arrow with the golden head;
 And thus Leander was enamourèd.
 Stone-still he stood, and evermore he gaz'd,
 Till with the fire, that from his countenance blaz'd,
 Relenting Hero's gentle heart was strook:
 Such power and virtue hath an amorous look.
It lies not in our power to love or hate,
 For will in us is overrul'd by fate.
 When two are stript long e'er the course begin,
 We wish that one should lose, the other win;
 And one especially do we affect
 Of two gold ingots, like in each respect:
 The reason no man knows; let it suffice,
 What we behold is censur'd by our eyes.
 Where both deliberate, the love is slight:
 Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?
He kneel'd; but unto her devoutly prayed:
 Chaste Hero to herself thus softly said,
 "Were I the saint he worships, I would hear him";
 And, as she spake those words, came somewhat near him.
 He started up; she blush'd as one asham'd;
 Wherewith Leander much more was inflam'd.
 He touch'd her hand; in touching it she trembled:
 Love deeply grounded, hardly is dissembled....

So they conversed by touch of hands, till Leander, plucking up courage, began to plead with words, with sighs and tears.

These arguments he us'd, and many more;
 Wherewith she yielded, that was won before.
 Hero's looks yielded, but her words made war:
 Women are won when they begin to jar.
 Thus having swallow'd Cupid's golden hook,
 The more she striv'd, the deeper was she strook:
 Yet, evilly feigning anger, strove she still,
 And would be thought to grant against her will.
 So having paus'd awhile, at last she said,
 "Who taught thee rhetoric to deceive a maid?
 Ay me! such words as these should I abhor,
 And yet I like them for the orator."
 With that Leander stoop'd to have embrac'd her,
 But from his spreading arms away she cast her,
 And thus bespake him: "Gentle youth, forbear
 To touch the sacred garments which I wear." ...

Then she told him of the turret by the murmuring sea where all day long she tended Venus' swans and sparrows:

"Come thither." As she spake this, her tongue tripp'd,
 For unawares, "Come thither," from her slipp'd;
 And suddenly her former color chang'd,
 And here and there her eyes through anger rang'd;
 And, like a planet moving several ways
 At one self instant, she, poor soul, assays,
 Loving, not to love at all, and every part
 Strove to resist the motions of her heart:
 And hands so pure, so innocent, nay, such
 As might have made Heaven stoop to have a touch,
 Did she uphold to Venus, and again
 Vow'd spotless chastity; but all in vain;
 Cupid beats down her prayers with his wings....

Fig. 79. Hero and Leander

From the painting by Keller

For a season all went well. Guided by a torch which his mistress reared upon the tower, he was wont of nights to swim the strait that he might enjoy her company. But one night a tempest arose and the sea was rough; his strength failed and he was drowned. The waves bore his body to the European shore, where Hero became aware of his death, and in her despair cast herself into the sea and perished.

A picture of the drowning Leander is thus described by Keats:[135]

Come hither all sweet maidens soberly,
 Down looking aye, and with a chasten'd light,
 Hid in the fringe of your eyelids white,
 And meekly let your fair hands joinèd be,
 As if so gentle that ye could not see,
 Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright,
 Sinking away to his young spirit's night,
 Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea:
 'Tis young Leander toiling to his death;
 Nigh swooning he doth purse his weary lips
 For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile.
 O horrid dream! see how his body dips
 Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile;
 He's gone; up bubbles all his amorous breath!

105. Pygmalion and the Statue.[136] Pygmalion saw so much to blame in women, that he came at last to abhor the sex and resolved to live unmarried. He was a sculptor, and had made with wonderful skill a statue of ivory, so beautiful that no living woman was to compare with it. It was indeed the perfect semblance of a maiden that seemed to be alive and that was prevented from moving only by modesty. His art was so perfect that it concealed itself, and its product looked like the workmanship of nature. Pygmalion at last fell in love with his counterfeit creation. Oftentimes he laid his hand upon it as if to assure himself whether it were living or not, and could not even then believe that it was only ivory.

The festival of Venus was at hand,—a festival celebrated with great pomp at Cyprus. Victims were offered, the altars smoked, and the odor of incense filled the air. When Pygmalion had performed his part in the solemnities, he stood before the altar and, according to one of our poets, timidly said:

O Aphrodite, kind and fair,
 That what thou wilt canst give,
 Oh, listen to a sculptor's prayer,
 And bid mine image live!
 For me the ivory and gold
 That clothe her cedar frame
 Are beautiful, indeed, but cold;
 Ah, touch them with thy flame!
 Oh, bid her move those lips of rose,
 Bid float that golden hair,
 And let her choose me, as I chose,
 This fairest of the fair!
 And then an altar in thy court
 I'll offer, decked with gold;
 And there thy servants shall resort,
 Thy doves be bought and sold![137]

According to another version of the story, he said not, "bid mine image live," but "one like my ivory virgin." At any rate, with such a prayer he threw incense on the flame of the altar. Whereupon Venus, as an omen of her favor, caused the flame to shoot up thrice a fiery point into the air.

When Pygmalion reached his home, to his amazement he saw before him his statue garlanded with flowers.

Yet while he stood, and knew not what to do
 With yearning, a strange thrill of hope there came,
 A shaft of new desire now pierced him through,
 And therewithal a soft voice called his name,
 And when he turned, with eager eyes aflame,
 He saw betwixt him and the setting sun
 The lively image of his lovèd one.
He trembled at the sight, for though her eyes,
 Her very lips, were such as he had made,
 And though her tresses fell but in such guise
 As he had wrought them, now was she arrayed
 In that fair garment that the priests had laid
 Upon the goddess on that very morn,
 Dyed like the setting sun upon the corn.
Speechless he stood, but she now drew anear,
 Simple and sweet as she was wont to be,
 And once again her silver voice rang clear,
 Filling his soul with great felicity,
 And thus she spoke, "Wilt thou not come to me,
 O dear companion of my new-found life,
 For I am called thy lover and thy wife?...
"My sweet," she said, "as yet I am not wise,
 Or stored with words aright the tale to tell,
 But listen: when I opened first mine eyes
 I stood within the niche thou knowest well,
 And from my hand a heavy thing there fell
 Carved like these flowers, nor could I see things clear,
 But with a strange, confusèd noise could hear.
"At last mine eyes could see a woman fair,
 But awful as this round white moon o'erhead,
 So that I trembled when I saw her there,
 For with my life was born some touch of dread,
 And therewithal I heard her voice that said,
 'Come down and learn to love and be alive,
 For thee, a well-prized gift, to-day I give.'"[138]

A fuller account of Venus' address to the statue is the following:

O maiden, in mine image made!
 O grace that shouldst endure!
 While temples fall, and empires fade,
 Immaculately pure:
 Exchange this endless life of art
 For beauty that must die,
 And blossom with a beating heart
 Into mortality!
 Change, golden tresses of her hair,
 To gold that turns to gray;
 Change, silent lips, forever fair,
 To lips that have their day!
 Oh, perfect arms, grow soft with life,
 Wax warm, ere cold ye wane;
 Wake, woman's heart, from peace to strife,
 To love, to joy, to pain![139]

The maiden was called Galatea. Venus blessed the nuptials, and from the union Paphos was born, by whose name the city, sacred to Venus, is known.

106. Pyramus and Thisbe.[140] Pyramus was the handsomest youth and Thisbe the fairest maiden in Babylonia, where Semiramis reigned. Their parents occupied adjoining houses. Propinquity brought the young people together, and acquaintance ripened into love. They would gladly have married, but their parents forbade. One thing, however, parents could not forbid (for Venus and Cupid favored the match),—that love should glow with equal ardor in the bosoms of both. They conversed by signs and glances, and the fire burned the more intensely that it was covered. In the wall between the two houses there was a crack, caused by some fault in the structure. It afforded a passage to the voice; and tender messages passed back and forth through the gap. When night came and they must say farewell, the lovers pressed their lips upon the wall, she on her side, he on his.

Fig. 80. Thisbe

From the painting by Edward Burne-Jones

One morning, when Aurora had put out the stars and the sun had melted the frost from the grass, they met at the accustomed spot and arranged a meeting for that night at a well-known edifice, standing without the city's bounds,—the Tomb of Ninus. The one who first arrived should await the other at the foot of a white mulberry tree near a cool spring. Evening came. Thisbe, arriving first, sat alone by the monument in the dim light of the evening. Suddenly she descried a lioness, her jaws reeking with recent slaughter, approaching the fountain to slake her thirst. The maiden fled at the sight, dropping her veil as she ran. The lioness, after drinking at the spring, turned toward the woods, and, seeing the veil on the ground, tossed and rent it with her bloody mouth.

Now Pyramus approached the place of meeting. He saw in the sand the footsteps of the lion. He found the veil all rent and bloody. "O, hapless girl," cried he, "I have been the cause of thy death; but I follow thee!" So saying, he drew his sword and plunged it into his heart. The blood spurted from the wound and tinged the white mulberries of the tree all red, and, sinking into the earth, reached the roots, so that the sanguine hue mounted through the trunk to the fruit.

By this time Thisbe, still trembling with fear, yet wishing not to disappoint her lover, stepped cautiously forth, looking anxiously for the youth, eager to tell him the danger she had escaped. When she came to the spot and saw the changed color of the mulberries, she doubted whether it was the same place. While she hesitated, she saw the form of her lover struggling in the agonies of death. She screamed and beat her breast, she embraced the lifeless body, poured tears into its wounds, and imprinted kisses on the cold lips. "O, Pyramus," she cried, "what has done this? It is thine own Thisbe that speaks." At the name of Thisbe Pyramus opened his eyes, then closed them again. She saw her veil stained with blood and the scabbard empty of its sword. "Thine own hand has slain thee, and for my sake," she said. "I, too, can be brave for once, and my love is as strong as thine. But ye, unhappy parents of us both, deny us not our united request. As love and death have joined us, let one tomb contain us. And thou, tree, retain the marks of slaughter. Let thy berries still serve for memorials of our blood." So saying, she plunged the sword into her breast. The two bodies were buried in one sepulcher, and the tree henceforth produced purple berries.

107. Phaon ferried a boat between Lesbos and Chios. One day the queen of Paphos and Amathus,[141] in the guise of an ugly crone, begged a passage, which was so good-naturedly granted that in recompense she bestowed on the ferryman a salve possessing magical properties of youth and beauty. As a consequence of the use made of it by Phaon, the women of Lesbos went wild for love of him. None, however, admired him more than the poetess Sappho, who addressed to him some of her warmest and rarest love-songs.

108. The Vengeance of Venus. Venus did not fail to follow with her vengeance those who dishonored her rites or defied her power. The youth Hippolytus who, eschewing love, preferred Diana to her, she brought miserably to his ruin. Polyphonte she transformed into an owl, Arsinoë into a stone, and Myrrha into a myrtle tree.[142] Her influence in the main was of mingled bane and blessing, as in the cases of Helen, Œnone, Pasiphaë, Ariadne, Procris, Eriphyle, Laodamia, and others whose stories are elsewhere told.[143]

109. Myths of Mercury. According to Homer,[144] Maia bore Mercury at the peep of day,—a schemer subtle beyond all belief. He began playing on the lyre at noon; for, wandering out of the lofty cavern of Cyllene, he found a tortoise, picked it up, bored the life out of the beast, fitted the shell with bridge and reeds, and accompanied himself therewith as he sang a strain of unpremeditated sweetness. At evening of the same day he stole the oxen of his half brother Apollo from the Pierian mountains, where they were grazing. He covered their hoofs with tamarisk twigs, and, still further to deceive the pursuer, drove them backward into a cave at Pylos. There rubbing laurel branches together, he made fire and sacrificed, as an example for men to follow, two heifers to the twelve gods (himself included). Then home he went and slept, innocent as a new-born child! To his mother's warning that Apollo would catch and punish him, this innocent replied, in effect, "I know a trick better than that!" And when the puzzled Apollo, having traced the knavery to this babe in swaddling clothes, accused him of it, the sweet boy swore a great oath by his father's head that he stole not the cows, nor knew even what cows might be, for he had only that moment heard the name of them. Apollo proceeded to trounce the baby, with scant success, however, for Mercury persisted in his assumption of ignorance. So the twain appeared before their sire, and Apollo entered his complaint: he had not seen nor ever dreamed of so precocious a cattle-stealer, liar, and full-fledged knave as this young rascal. To all of which Mercury responded that he was, on the contrary, a veracious person, but that his brother Apollo was a coward to bully a helpless little new-born thing that slept, nor ever had thought of "lifting" cattle. The wink with which the lad of Cyllene accompanied this asseveration threw Jupiter into uncontrollable roars of laughter. Consequently, the quarrel was patched up: Mercury gave Apollo the new-made lyre; Apollo presented the prodigy with a glittering whiplash and installed him herdsman of his oxen. Nay even, when Mercury had sworn by sacred Styx no more to try his cunning in theft upon Apollo, that god in gratitude invested him with the magic wand of wealth, happiness, and dreams (the caduceus), it being understood, however, that Mercury should indicate the future only by signs, not by speech or song as did Apollo. It is said that the god of gain avenged himself for this enforced rectitude upon others: upon Venus, whose girdle he purloined; upon Neptune, whose trident he filched; upon Vulcan, whose tongs he borrowed; and upon Mars, whose sword he stole.

HERMES OF PRAXITELES

Fig. 81. Hermes and Dog

The most famous exploit of the Messenger, the slaughter of Argus, has already been narrated.

FOOTNOTES:

[66] Ovid, Metam. I, 700 et seq.

[67] Ovid, Metam. 2, 410 et seq.

[68] Translated by Andrew Lang: Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus, London, 1880.

[69] § 70.

[70] Ovid, Metam. 3, 260 et seq.

[71] §§ 42, 110-113.

[72] From E. R. Sill's Semele.

[73] Commentary, §§ 118, 255.

[74] Ovid, Metam. 7, 172 et seq.

[75] Roscher, Ausf. Lex. Lfg. 3, 379 [Schirmer]. Originals in Pausanias, Apollodorus, and Hyginus.

[76] From Tennyson's Amphion. See Horace, Ars Poet. 394.

[77] Ovid, Metam. 8, 620-724.

[78] From The Sons of Cydippe, by Edmund Gosse in his On Viol and Flute.

[79] § 27, and Commentary.

[80] From Ovid.

[81] From Spenser's Muiopotmos.

[82] Ovid, Metam. 6, 1-145.

[83] § 200.

[84] Iliad, 5, 850 et seq. (Lang, Leaf, and Myers' translation). In accordance with the system of nomenclature adopted in this work, Latin equivalents are given, wherever possible, for Greek names.

[85] Iliad, 21, 390 (Lang, Leaf, and Myers' translation).

[86] Ovid, Metam. 3, 1-137; 4, 563-614.

[87] Iliad, 2, 1335.

[88] Ovid, Metam. 6, 313-381.

[89] § 30.

[90] Roscher, Ausf. Lex. Lfg. 2, 254, Article Aloadæ [Schultz].

[91] Ovid, Metam. 10, 162-219.

[92] Ovid, Metam. 2, 1-400.

[93] § 44.

[94] Medio tutissimus ibis.—Ovid.

[95]

Hic situs est Phaëthon, currus auriga paterni,
 Quem si non tenuit, magnis tamen excidit ausis.—Ovid.

[96] Iliad, 1, 43-52 (Lang, Leaf, and Myers' translation).

[97] Ovid, Metam. 6, 165-312.

[98] From W. S. Landor's Niobe.

[99] See Commentary, §§ 64, 80.

[100] Iliad, 18, 564 (Lang, Leaf, and Myers' translation).

[101] Cicero, Natura Deorum, 3, 22.

[102] See Commentary.

[103] From Browning's Balaustion's Adventure. The Greek form of the proper names has been retained.

[104] Proserpine.

[105] For the originals, see Iliad, 2, 715, and the Alcestis of Euripides.

[106] Ovid, Metam. 11, 146-193.

[107] § 118.

[108] § 145.

[109] Ovid, Metam. 1, 452-567.

[110] From the Fable for Critics.

[111] Iliad, 9, 561; Apollodorus, 1, 7, § 8.

[112] Stephen Phillips, Marpessa.

[113] Ovid, Metam. 4, 256-270.

[114] § 196.

[115] § 168.

[116] Ovid, Metam. 5, 585-641.

[117] Ovid, Metam. 3, 138-252.

[118] Apollodorus, 1, 4, § 3.

[119] Ovid, Fasti, 5, 537; Iliad, 18, 486, and 22, 29; Odyssey, 5, 121, 274.

[120] The story is told by Hyginus in his Fables, and in his Poetical Astronomy.

[121] Authorities are Pausanias, 5, 1, §§ 2-4; Ovid, Ars. Am. 3, 83; Tristia, 2, 299; Apollonius, and Apollodorus.

[122] From the Endymion, Bk. 3.

[123] § 194.

[124] Ovid, Metam. 10, 503-559, 708-739.

[125] From an elegy intended to be sung at one of the spring celebrations in memory of Adonis. Translated from Bion by Andrew Lang. Cypris, Cytherea, and the Paphian refer to Venus. See Commentary. This elegy is also translated by Mrs. Browning and by Sir Edwin Arnold.

[126] Apuleius, Metam. Golden Ass, 4, 28, etc.

[127] William Morris, The Story of Cupid and Psyche, in The Earthly Paradise.

[128] Robert Bridges, Eros and Psyche.

[129] The last three paragraphs are from Pater's version in Marius the Epicurean.

[130] William Morris, The Earthly Paradise.

[131] By T. K. Hervey.

[132] Ovid, Metam. 10, 560-680.

[133] From W. S. Landor's Hippomenes and Atalanta.

[134] The poetical passages are from Marlowe's Hero and Leander, First Sestiad. Marlowe's narrative was completed by Chapman. See Musæus of Alexandria, De Amore Herois et Leandri; Virg. Georg. 3, 258; Ovid, Her. 18, 19; Stat. Theb. 6, 770.

[135] Sonnet, On a Picture of Leander.

[136] Ovid, Metam. 10, 243-297.

[137] Andrew Lang, The New Pygmalion.

[138] From William Morris, Pygmalion and the Image, in The Earthly Paradise.

[139] Andrew Lang, The New Pygmalion, or The Statue's Choice. A witty and not unpoetic bit of burlesque.

[140] Ovid, Metam. 4, 55-166.

[141] § 100, and Commentary.

[142] Murray, Manual of Mythology, p. 87; Ovid, Metam. 10, 298-502.

[143] See Index for sections.

[144] Hymn to Mercury (Hermes).

CHAPTER VIII
MYTHS OF THE GREAT DIVINITIES OF EARTH

110. Myths of Bacchus. Since the adventures of Ceres, although she was a goddess of earth, are intimately connected with the life of the underworld, they will be related in the sections pertaining to Proserpine and Pluto. The god of vernal sap and vegetation, of the gladness that comes of youth or of wine, the golden-curled, sleepy-eyed Bacchus (Dionysus),—his wanderings, and the fortunes of mortals brought under his influence (Pentheus, Acetes, Ariadne, and Midas), here challenge our attention.