Heathen mythology Part 44

"Her lily hand he seized, and gently pressed, And softly sighed the pa.s.sion of his breast, Then to the temples last recess conveyed The unreluctant, unresisting maid, Silent she stood, and wrapt in thought profound, Her modest eyes were fixed upon the ground, Her cheeks she hid, in rosy blushes drest, And veiled her lily shoulders with her vest."

MUSaeUS.

The earnest wooing of Leander was a.s.sisted by the boy-G.o.d, and Hero, won by his pa.s.sionate pleading, and by a love as strong as it was sudden, consented to become his bride.

------------------"How more than sweet, That moment, as he knelt at Hero's feet, Breathing his pa.s.sion in each thrilling word, Only by lovers said, and lovers heard."

L. E. L.

Before they parted, she told him of her place of abode over the broad h.e.l.lespont, which he must cross, ere he could enjoy her society, and pointed out the spot to which he should look at night for a torch to guide his way. {258}

"Dimly and slowly the hours pa.s.sed by, until Leander saw day's bright orb disappear: He thought of Hero and the lost delight, Her last embracings, and the s.p.a.ce between; He thought of Hero, and the future night, Her speechless rapture, and enamoured mien."

KEATS.

At last the twilight came, followed by the darkness of night, and the bright star of Venus alone looked down on the expectant lover. He saw not the dark rush of h.e.l.le's wave, he heard not the fierce sweep of its waters; he thought only of the beautiful bride, who had sate watching, and waiting for the weary sun to go down; when, lo

"Her turret torch was blazing high, Though rising gale and breaking foam, And shrieking sea birds warned him home; And clouds aloft, and tides below, With sighs, and sounds, forbade to go; He could not see, he would not hear, Or sound or sign foreboding fear; His eye but saw that light of love, The only star it hailed above; His ear but rang with Hero's song, 'Ye waves divide not lovers long!'"

With a strong hand and anxious heart, the husband-lover dashed aside the impetuous waves; and sought and gained in safety the sh.o.r.e which the blazing light had signalled. And, oh! the tenderness of that meeting; the obstacles which intervened added an additional zest, and the waves seemed to have nerved the youth to a higher excitement, as he gazed on Hero. But the sorrowful morning came, and

------------------"They parted, but they met again-- The blue sea rolled between them--but in vain!

Leander had no fear, he cleft the wave, What is the peril fond hearts will not brave!

Delicious were their moonlight wanderings, Delicious were the kind, the gentle things Each to the other breathed; a starry sky, Music and flowers, this is earth's luxury.

The measure of its happiness is full, When all around, like it, is beautiful.

There were sweet birds to count the hours, and roses, Like those on which a blus.h.i.+ng cheek reposes, Violets as fresh as violets could be; Stars over head, with each a history Of love told by its light; and waving trees And perfumed breathings upon every breeze."

L. E. L.

But their intercourse was soon stopped, it seemed too beautiful {259} for earth; Leander, however, thought not of this, but with the enthusiastic ardour of youth, looked forward to a long life of delights. The day to him was a dull blank, and was employed in watching the spot, where at night he saw the beacon which cheered his way. But alas! the change came too soon.

--------------------"One night the sky, As if with pa.s.sion, darkened angrily, And gusts of wind swept o'er the troubled main Like hasty threats, and then were calm again; That night, young Hero by her beacon kept Her silent watch, and blamed the night and wept, And scarcely dared to look upon the sky; Yet lulling still her fond anxiety."

L. E. L.

Morning came, and came after a night of such terror, as but rarely is known to mortals; for the first time Leander had not sought her bower, and an indistinct shadow brooded over her mind, of some vague, uncertain dread, as she wandered down to the sea sh.o.r.e.

"Her heart sick with its terror, and her eye, Roving in tearful, dim uncertainty.

Not long uncertain,--she marked something glide, Shadowy and indistinct upon the tide; On rushed she in that desperate energy, Which only has to know, and knowing, die-- --It was Leander!"

L. E. L.

The melancholy tale is told; storm nor tempest had power to keep the husband from his wife, and in the wildness of his struggles for life, when hope was gone and despair succeeded, his last glance sought the watch light in Abydos, and his last sigh was given to the fond being who looked in vain from its rocky strand.

PYGMALION

was a statuary, celebrated in Cyprus for the exquisite skill of his statues. He became disgusted to such a degree with the debauchery of the females of Amathus, that he resolved never to marry, but to devote himself to his art.

In this he became so proficient, that his marble busts seemed almost like life--and one, the figure of a female, was regarded by him with such affection that he grew deeply enamoured of it, {260} wors.h.i.+pping it with all the devotion which mortals usually pay to woman.

The pa.s.sion increased, and the G.o.ds, pitying his despair, changed the statue into that of a beautiful female, whom he married, and had by her a son called Paphos, who founded the town of the same name in Cyprus.

"There was a statuary, one who loved And wors.h.i.+pped the white marble that he shaped; Till, as the story goes, the Cyprus' queen, Or some such fine, kind hearted deity, Touched the pale stone with life, and it became At last Pygmalion's bride."

BARRY CORNWALL.

SAPPHO AND PHAON.

The story of Sappho and of Phaon has become almost, if not quite as well known, as that of Hero and Leander. Sappho was celebrated for her beauty and her poetical talents, all of which she bestowed in love on Phaon.

"A youth so shaped, with such a mien, A form like that of Jove serene, With sparkling eyes, and flowing hair, And wit, that ever charms the fair."

He gave himself up for a time to the pleasure of her society, but man was as fickle then as now, and he grew tired, even conceiving a disdain for her who had so quickly given herself to his arms.

To a mind like Sappho's, finely wrought, as that of poets usually are, this became insupportable; life was a burthen; song, now that the one had gone whose praise she valued more than all beside, became neglected; and in a fit of insupportable madness she threw herself into the sea.

"From Leucadia's promontory Flung herself headlong for the Lesbian boy, (Ungrateful he to work her such annoy;) But time hath as in sad requital, given A branch of laurel to her, and some bard Swears that a heathen G.o.d or G.o.ddess gave Her swan-like wings wherewith to fly to heaven.

And now, at times, when gloomy tempests roar Along the Adriatic, in the waves She dips her plumes, and on the watery sh.o.r.e Sings as the love-crazed Sappho sung of yore."

BARRY CORNWALL.

{261}

Of all her compositions, but two now remain; which, fragments as they are, shew by their uncommon sweetness and beauty, how worthily the praises of the ancients were bestowed upon a poet, whom they even ventured to call the tenth muse.

"Then came a dark browed spirit, on whose head Laurel and withering roses loosely hung: She held a harp, amongst whose chords her hand Wandered for music--and it came. She sang A song despairing, and the whispering winds Seemed envious of her melody and streamed Amidst the wires to rival her, in vain.

Short was the strain but sweet: methought it spoke Of broken hearts, and still and moonlight seas, Of love, and loneliness, and fancy gone, And hopes decayed for ever: and my ear Caught well remembered names, 'Leucadia's rock,'

At times, and 'faithless Phaon:' then the form Pa.s.sed not, but seemed to melt in air away: This was the Lesbian Sappho."

BARRY CORNWALL.

The Lesbians were so enraptured with her strains, that they raised her to divine honours, and erected a temple to her, and even stamped their money with her image.

"Thou! whose impa.s.sioned face The poet loves to trace, Theme of the sculptor's art, and poet's story, How many a wandering thought Thy loveliness hath brought, Warming the heart with its imagined glory!

Yet, was it History's truth.

That tale of wasted youth, Of endless grief, and love forsaken, pining?

What wert thou, thou whose woe The old traditions show, With Fame's cold light around thee vainly s.h.i.+ning!

Did'st thou indeed sit there In languid lone despair?

Thy harp neglected by thee idly lying?

Thy soft and earnest gaze, Watching the lingering rays, In the far west, where Summer-day was dying?

Did'st thou, as day by day, Rolled heavily away, And left thee anxious, nerveless and dejected, Wandering thro' bowers beloved, Roving where he had roved, Yearn for his presence, as for one expected?

Did'st thou, with fond wild eyes Fix'd on the starry skies, Wait feverishly for each new day to waken?

Trusting some glorious morn Might witness his return, {262} Unwilling to believe thyself forsaken?

And when contrition came, Chilling that heart of flame, Did'st thou, O saddest of Earth's grieving daughters, From the Lucadian steep, Dash, with a desperate leap, And hide thyself within the whelming waters?

Such is the tale they tell, Vain was thy beauty's spell-- Vain all the praise thy song could still inspire, Though many a happy band, Rung with less skilful hand, The borrowed love notes of thy echoing lyre.