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    Chapter 5

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    Chapter 5
    Previous Chapter
    Chapter V
    Pygmalion. Dryope. Venus and Adonis. Apollo and Hyacinthus.
    Ceyx and Halcyone.

    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 could be compared to it in beauty.
    It was indeed the perfect semblance of a maiden that seemed to be
    alive, and only prevented from moving by modesty. His art was so
    perfect that it concealed itself, and its product looked like the
    workmanship of nature. Pygmalion admired his own work, and at
    last fell in love with the 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. He caressed it, and gave it presents such as young girls
    love, bright shells and polished stones, little birds and
    flowers of various hues, beads and amber. He put raiment on its
    limbs, and jewels on its fingers, and a necklace about its neck.
    To the ears he hung earrings and strings of pearls upon the
    breast. Her dress became her, and she looked not less charming
    than when unattired. He laid her on a couch spread with cloths
    of Tyrian dye, and called her his wife, and put her head upon a
    pillow of the softest feathers, as if she could enjoy their
    softness.

    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 timidly said, "Ye gods, who can do all things, give me, I
    pray you, for my wife" he dared not say "my ivory virgin," but
    said instead "one like my ivory virgin." Venus, who was
    present at the festival, heard him and knew the thought he would
    have uttered; and, as an omen of her favor, caused the flame on
    the altar to shoot up thrice in a fiery point into the air. When
    he returned home, he went to see his statue, and, leaning over
    the couch, gave a kiss to the mouth. It seemed to be warm. He
    pressed its lips again, he laid his hand upon the limbs; the
    ivory felt soft to his touch, and yielded to his fingers like the
    wax of Hymettus. While he stands astonished and glad, though
    doubting, and fears he may be mistaken, again and again with a
    lover's ardor he touches the object of his hopes. It was indeed
    alive! The veins when pressed yielded to the finger and then
    resumed their roundness. Then at last the votary of Venus found
    words to thank the goddess, and pressed his lips upon lips as
    real as his own. The virgin felt the kisses and blushed, and,
    opening her timid eyes to the light, fixed them at the same
    moment on her lover. Venus blessed the nuptials she had formed,
    and from this union Paphos was born, from whom the city, sacred
    to Venus, received its name.

    Schiller, in his poem, the Ideals, applies this tale of Pygmalion
    to the love of nature in a youthful heart. In Schiller's
    version, as in William Morris's, the statue is of marble.

    "As once with prayers in passion flowing,
    Pygmalion embraced the stone,
    Till from the frozen marble glowing,
    The light of feeling o'er him shone,
    So did I clasp with young devotion
    Bright Nature to a poet's heart;
    Till breath and warmth and vital motion
    Seemed through the statue form to dart.

    "And then in all my ardor sharing,
    The silent form expression found;
    Returned my kiss of youthful daring,
    And understood my heart's quick sound.
    Then lived for me the bright creation.
    The silver rill with song was rife;
    The trees, the roses shared sensation,
    An echo of my boundless life."
    Rev. A. G. Bulfinch (brother of the author).

    Morris tells the story of Pygmalion and the Image in some of the
    most beautiful verses of the Earthly Paradise.

    This is Galatea's description of her metamorphosis:

    "'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 confused 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, today I give."'"

    DRYOPE

    Dryope and Iole were sisters. The former was the wife of
    Andraemon, beloved by her husband, and happy in the birth of her
    first child. One day the sisters strolled to the bank of a
    stream that sloped gradually down to the water's edge, while the
    upland was overgrown with myrtles. They were intending to gather
    flowers for forming garlands for the altars of the nymphs, and
    Dryope carried her child at her bosom, a precious burden, and
    nursed him as she walked. Near the water grew a lotus plant,
    full of purple flowers. Dryope gathered some and offered them to
    the baby, and Iole was about to do the same, when she perceived
    blood dropping from the places where her sister had broken them
    off the stem. The plant was no other than the Nymph Lotis, who,
    running from a base pursuer, had been changed into this form.
    This they learned from the country people when it was too late.

    Dryope, horror-struck when she perceived what she had done, would
    gladly have hastened from the spot, but found her feet rooted to
    the ground. She tried to pull them away, but moved nothing but
    her arms. The woodiness crept upward, and by degrees invested
    her body. In anguish she attempted to tear her hair, but found
    her hands filled with leaves. The infant felt his mother's bosom
    begin to harden, and the milk cease to flow. Iole looked on at
    the sad fate of her sister, and could render no assistance. She
    embraced the growing trunk, as if she would hold back the
    advancing wood, and would gladly have been enveloped in the same
    bark. At this moment Andraemon, the husband of Dryope, with her
    father, approached; and when they asked for Dryope, Iole pointed
    them to the new-formed lotus. They embraced the trunk of the yet
    warm tree, and showered their kisses on its leaves.

    Now there was nothing left of Dryope but her face. Her tears
    still flowed and fell on her leaves, and while she could she
    spoke. "I am not guilty. I deserve not this fate. I have
    injured no one. If I speak falsely, may my foliage perish with
    drought and my trunk be cut down and burned. Take this infant
    and give him to a nurse. Let him often be brought and nursed
    under my branches, and play in my shade; and when he is old
    enough to talk, let him be taught to call me mother, and to say
    with sadness, 'My mother lies hid under this bark' But bid him be
    careful of river banks, and beware how he plucks flowers,
    remembering that every bush he sees may be a goddess in disguise.
    Farewell, dear husband, and sister, and father. If you retain
    any love for me, let not the axe wound me, nor the flocks bite
    and tear my branches. Since I cannot stoop to you, climb up
    hither and kiss me; and while my lips continue to feel, lift up
    my child that I may kiss him. I can speak no more, for already
    the bark advances up my neck, and will soon shoot over me. You
    need not close my eyes; the bark will close them without your
    aid." Then the lips ceased to move, and life was extinct; but
    the branches retained, for some time longer the vital heat.

    Keats, in Endymion, alludes to Dryope thus:

    "She took a lute from which there pulsing came
    A lively prelude, fashioning the way
    In which her voice should wander. 'Twas a lay
    More subtle-cadenced, more forest-wild
    Than Dryope's lone lulling of her child."

    VENUS AND ADONIS

    Venus, playing one day with her boy Cupid, wounded her bosom with
    one of his arrows. She pushed him away, but the wound was deeper
    than she thought. Before it healed she beheld Adonis, and was
    captivated with him. She no longer took any interest in her
    favorite resorts, Paphos, and Cnidos, and Amathos, rich in
    metals. She absented herself even from Olympus, for Adonis was
    dearer to her than heaven. Him she followed and bore him
    company. She who used to love to recline in the shade, with no
    care but to cultivate her charms, now rambled through the woods
    and over the hills, dressed like the huntress Diana. She called
    her dogs, and chased hares and stags, or other game that it is
    safe to hunt, but kept clear of the wolves and bears, reeking
    with the slaughter of the herd. She charged Adonis, too, to
    beware of such dangerous animals. "Be brave towards the timid,"
    said she; "courage against the courageous is not safe. Beware
    how you expose yourself to danger, and put my happiness to risk.
    Attack not the beasts that Nature has armed with weapons. I do
    not value your glory so highly as to consent to purchase it by
    such exposure. Your youth, and the beauty that charms Venus,
    will not touch the hearts of lions and bristly boars. Think of
    their terrible claws and prodigious strength! I hate the whole
    race of them. Do you ask why?" Then she told him the story of
    Atalanta and Hippomenes, who were changed into lions for their
    ingratitude to her.

    Having given him this warning, she mounted her chariot drawn by
    swans, and drove away through the air. But Adonis was too noble
    to heed such counsels. The dogs had roused a wild boar from his
    lair, and the youth threw his spear and wounded the animal with a
    sidelong stroke. The beast drew out the weapon with his jaws,
    and rushed after Adonis, who turned and ran; but the boar
    overtook him, and buried his tusks in his side, and stretched him
    dying upon the plain.

    Venus, in her swan-drawn chariot, had not yet reached Cyprus,
    when she heard coming up through mid air the groans of her
    beloved, and turned her white-winged coursers back to earth. As
    she drew near and saw from on high his lifeless body bathed in
    blood, she alighted, and bending over it beat her breast and tore
    her hair. Reproaching the Fates, she said, "Yet theirs shall be
    but a partial triumph; memorials of my grief shall endure, and
    the spectacle of your death, my Adonis, and of my lamentation
    shall be annually renewed. Your blood shall be changed into a
    flower; that consolation none can envy me." Thus speaking, she
    sprinkled nectar on the blood; and as they mingled, bubbles rose
    as in a pool on which raindrops fall, and in an hour's time there
    sprang up a flower of bloody hue like that of a pomegranate. But
    it is short-lived. It is said the wind blows the blossoms open,
    and afterwards blows the petals away; so it is called Anemone, or
    wind Flower, from the cause which assists equally in its
    production and its decay.

    Milton alludes to the story of Venus and Adonis in his Comus:

    "Beds of hyacinth and roses
    Where young Adonis oft reposes,
    Waxing well of his deep wound
    In slumber soft, and on the ground
    Sadly sits th'Assyrian queen."

    And Morris also in Atalanta's Race:

    "There by his horn the Dryads well might know
    His thrust against the bear's heart had been true,
    And there Adonis bane his javelin slew"

    APOLLO AND HYACINTHUS

    Apollo was passionately fond of a youth named Hyacinthus. He
    accompanied him 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 his lyre and
    his arrows. One day they played a game of quoits together, and
    Apollo, heaving aloft the discus, with strength mingled with
    skill, sent it high and far. Hyacinthus watched it as it flew,
    and excited with the sport ran forward to seize it, eager to make
    his throw, when the quoit 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 all in vain; the hurt was past the
    power of medicine. 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," so spoke Phoebus,
    "robbed of thy youth by me. Thine is the suffering, mine the
    crime. Would that I could die for thee! But since that may not
    be thou shalt live with me in memory and in song. My lyre shall
    celebrate thee, my song shall tell thy fate, and thou shalt
    become a flower inscribed with my regrets." While Apollo spoke,
    behold the blood which had flowed on the ground and stained the
    herbage, ceased to be blood; but a flower of hue more beautiful
    than the Tyrian sprang up, resembling the lily, if it were not
    that this is purple and that silvery white (it is evidently not
    our modern hyacinth that is here described. It is perhaps some
    species of iris, or perhaps of larkspur, or of pansy.) And this
    was not enough for Phoebus; but to confer still grater honor, he
    marked the petals with his sorrow, and inscribed "Ah! Ah!" upon
    them, as we see to this day. The flower bears the name of
    Hyacinthus, and with every returning spring revives the memory of
    his fate.

    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. Keats
    alludes to this in his Endymion, where he describes the lookers-
    on at the game of quoits:

    "Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent
    On either side, pitying the sad death
    Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath
    Of Zephyr slew him; Zephyr penitent,
    Who now ere Phoebus mounts the firmament,
    Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain."

    An allusion to Hyacinthus will also be recognized in Milton's
    Lycidas:

    "Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe."

    CEYX AND HALCYONE: OR, THE HALCYON BIRDS

    Ceyx was King of Thessaly, where he reigned in peace without
    violence or wrong. He was son of Hesperus, the Day-star, and the
    glow of his beauty reminded one of his father. Halcyone, the
    daughter of Aeolus, was his wife, and devotedly attached to him.
    Now Ceyx was in deep affliction for the loss of his brother, and
    direful prodigies following his brother's death made him feel as
    if the gods were hostile to him. He thought best therefore to
    make a voyage to Claros in Ionia, to consult the oracle of
    Apollo. But as soon as he disclosed his intention to his wife
    Halcyone, a shudder ran through her frame, and her face grew
    deadly pale. "What fault of mine, dearest husband, has turned
    your affection from me? Where is that love of me that used to be
    uppermost in your thoughts? Have you learned to feel easy in the
    absence of Halcyone? Would you rather have me away?" She also
    endeavored to discourage him, by describing the violence of the
    winds, which she had known familiarly when she lived at home in
    her father's house, Aeolus being the god of the winds, and having
    as much as he could do to restrain them. "They rush together,"
    said she, "with such fury that fire flashes from the conflict.
    But if you must go," she added, "dear husband, let me go with
    you, Otherwise I shall suffer, not only the real evils which you
    must encounter, but those also which my fears suggest."

    These words weighed heavily on the mind of king Ceyx, and it was
    no less his own wish than hers to take her with him, but he could
    not bear to expose her to the dangers of the sea. He answered,
    therefore, consoling her as well as he could, and finished with
    these words: "I promise, by the rays of my father the Day-star,
    that if fate permits I will return before the moon shall have
    twice rounded her orb." When he had thus spoken he ordered the
    vessel to be drawn out of the ship-house, and the oars and sails
    to be put aboard. When Halcyone saw these preparations she
    shuddered, as if with a presentiment of evil. With tears and
    sobs she said farewell, and then fell senseless to the ground.

    Ceyx would still have lingered, but now the young men grasped
    their oars and pulled vigorously through the waves, with long and
    measured strokes. Halcyone raised her streaming eyes, and saw
    her husband standing on the deck, waving his hand to her. She
    answered his signal till the vessel had receded so far that she
    could no longer distinguish his form from the rest. When the
    vessel itself could no more be seen, she strained her eyes to
    catch the last glimmer of the sail, till that too disappeared.
    Then, retiring to her chamber, she threw herself on her solitary
    couch.

    Meanwhile they glide out of the harbor, and the breeze plays
    among the ropes. The seamen draw in their oars, and hoist their
    sails. When half or less of their course was passed, as night
    drew on, the sea began to whiten with swelling waves, and the
    east wind to blow a gale. The master gives the word to take in
    sail, but the storm forbids obedience, for such is the roar of
    the winds and waves that his orders are unheard. The men, of
    their own accord, busy themselves to secure the oars, to
    strengthen the ship, to reef the sail. While they thus do what
    to each one seems best, the storm increases. The shouting of the
    men, the rattling of the shrouds, and the dashing of the waves,
    mingle with the roar of the thunder. The swelling sea seems
    lifted up to the heavens, to scatter its foam among the clouds;
    then sinking away to the bottom assumes the color of the shoal,
    a Stygian blackness.

    The vessel obeys all these changes. It seems like a wild beast
    that rushes on the spears of the hunters. Rain falls in
    torrents, as if the skies were coming down to unite with the sea.
    When the lightning ceases for a moment, the night seems to add
    its own darkness to that of the storm; then comes the flash,
    rending the darkness asunder, and lighting up all with a glare.
    Skill fails, courage sinks, and death seems to come on every
    wave. The men are stupefied with terror. The thought of
    parents, and kindred, and pledges left at home, comes over their
    minds. Ceyx thinks of Halcyone. No name but hers is on his
    lips, and while he yearns for her, he yet rejoices in her
    absence. Presently the mast is shattered by a stroke of
    lightning, the rudder broken, and the triumphant surge curling
    over looks down upon the wreck, then falls, and crushes it to
    fragments. Some of the seamen, stunned by the stroke, sink, and
    rise no more; others cling to fragments of the wreck. Ceyx, with
    the hand that used to grasp the sceptre, holds fast to a plank,
    calling for help, alas, in vain, upon his father and his
    father-in-law. But oftenest on his lips was the name of
    Halcyone. His thoughts cling to her. He prays that the waves
    may bear his body to her sight, and that it may receive burial at
    her hands. At length the waters overwhelm him, and he sinks.
    The Day-star looked dim that night. Since it could not leave the
    heavens, it shrouded its face with clouds.

    In the mean while Halcyone, ignorant of all these horrors,
    counted the days till her husband's promised return. Now she
    gets ready the garments which he shall put on, and now what she
    shall wear when he arrives. To all the gods she offers frequent
    incense but more than all to Juno. For her husband, who was no
    more, she prayed incessantly; that he might be safe; that he
    might come home; that he might not, in his absence, see any one
    that he would love better than her. But of all these prayers,
    the last was the only one destined to be granted. The goddess,
    at length, could not bear any longer to be pleaded with for one
    already dead, and to have hands raised to her altars, that ought
    rather to be offering funeral rites. So, calling Iris, she said,
    "Iris, my faithful messenger, go to the drowsy dwelling of
    Somnus, and tell him to send a vision to Halcyone, in the form of
    Ceyx, to make known to her the event."

    Iris puts on her robe of many colors, and tingeing the sky with
    her bow, seeks the palace of the King of Sleep. Near the
    Cimmerian country, a mountain cave is the abode of the dull god,
    Somnus, Here Phoebus dares not come, either rising, or at
    midday, or setting. Clouds and shadows are exhaled from the
    ground, and the light glimmers faintly. The bird of dawn, with
    crested head, never calls aloud there to Aurora, nor watchful
    dog, nor more sagacious goose disturbs the silence. (This
    comparison of the dog and the goose is a reference by Ovid to a
    passage in Roman history.) No wild beast, nor cattle, nor branch
    moved with the wind, nor sound of human conversation, breaks the
    stillness. Silence reigns there; and from the bottom of the rock
    the River Lethe flows, and by its murmur invites to sleep.
    Poppies grow abundantly before the door of the cave, and other
    herbs, from whose juices Night collects slumbers, which she
    scatters over the darkened earth. There is no gate to the
    mansion, to creak on its hinges, nor any watchman; but in the
    midst, a couch of black ebony, adorned with black plumes and
    black curtains. There the god reclines, his limbs relaxed with
    sleep. Around him lie dreams, resembling all various forms, as
    many as the harvest bears stalks, or the forest leaves, or the
    seashore grains of sand.

    As soon as the goddess entered and brushed away the dreams that
    hovered around her, her brightness lit up all the cave. The god,
    scarce opening his eyes, and ever and anon dropping his beard
    upon his breast, at last shook himself free from himself, and
    leaning on his arm, inquired her errand, for he knew who she
    was. She answered, "Somnus, gentlest of the gods, tranquillizer
    of minds and soother of careworn hearts, Juno sends you her
    commands that you dispatch a dream to Halcyone, in the city of
    Trachinae, representing her lost husband and all the events of
    the wreck."

    Having delivered her message, Iris hasted away, for she could not
    longer endure the stagnant air, and as she felt drowsiness
    creeping over her, she made her escape, and returned by her bow
    the way she came. Then Somnus called one of his numerous sons,
    Morpheus, the most expert at counterfeiting forms, and in
    imitating the walk, the countenance, and mode of speaking, even
    the clothes and attitudes most characteristic of each. But he
    only imitates men, leaving it to another to personate birds,
    beasts, and serpents. Him they call Icelos; and Phantasos is a
    third, who turns himself into rocks, waters, woods, and other
    things without life. These wait upon kings and great personages
    in their sleeping hours, while others move among the common
    people. Somnus chose, from all the brothers, Morpheus, to
    perform the command of Iris; then laid his head on his pillow and
    yielded himself to grateful repose.

    Morpheus flew, making no noise with his wings, and soon came to
    the Haemonian city, where, laying aside his wings, he assumed the
    form of Ceyx. Under that form, but pale like a dead man, naked,
    he stood before the couch of the wretched wife. His beard seemed
    soaked with water, and water trickled from his drowned locks.
    Leaning over the bed, tears streaming from his eyes, he said, "Do
    you recognize your Ceyx, unhappy wife, or has death too much
    changed my visage? Behold me, know me, your husband's shade,
    instead of himself. Your prayers, Halcyone, availed me nothing.
    I am dead. No more deceive yourself with vain hopes of my
    return. The stormy winds sunk my ship in the Aegean Sea; waves
    filled my mouth while it called aloud on you. No uncertain
    messenger tells you this, no vague rumor brings it to your ears.
    I come in person, a shipwrecked man, to tell you my fate. Arise!
    Give me tears, give me lamentations, let me not go down to
    Tartarus unwept." To these words Morpheus added the voice which
    seemed to be that of her husband; he seemed to pour forth genuine
    tears; his hands had the gestures of Ceyx.

    Halcyone, weeping, groaned, and stretched out her arms in her
    sleep, striving to embrace his body, but grasping only the air.
    "Stay!" she cried; "whither do you fly? Let us go together."
    Her own voice awakened her. Starting up, she gazed eagerly
    around, to see if he was still present, for the servants, alarmed
    by her cries, had brought a light. When she found him not, she
    smote her breast and rent her garments. She cares not to unbind
    her hair, but tears it wildly. Her nurse asks what is the cause
    of her grief. "Halcyone is no more," she answers; "she perished
    with her Ceyx. Utter not words of comfort, he is shipwrecked and
    dead. I have seen him. I have recognized him. I stretched out
    my hands to seize him and detain him. His shade vanished, but it
    was the true shade of my husband. Not with the accustomed
    features, not with the beauty that was his, but pale, naked, and
    with his hair wet with sea-water, he appeared to wretched me.
    Here, in this very spot, the sad vision stood," and she looked
    to find the mark of his footsteps. "This it was, this that my
    presaging mind foreboded, when I implored him not to leave me to
    trust himself to the waves. O, how I wish, since thou wouldst
    go, that thou hadst taken me with thee! It would have been far
    better. Then I should have had no remnant of life to spend
    without thee, nor a separate death to die. If I could bear to
    live and struggle to endure, I should be more cruel to myself
    than the sea has been to me. But I will not struggle. I will
    not be separated from thee, unhappy husband. This time, at least
    I will keep thee company. In death, if one tomb may not include
    us, one epitaph shall; if I may not lay my ashes with thine, my
    name, at least, shall not be separated." Her grief forbade more
    words, and these were broken with tears and sobs.

    It was now morning. She went to the sea-shore, and sought the
    spot where she last saw him, on his departure. "Here he lingered
    and cast off his tacklings and gave me his last kiss." While she
    reviews every moment, and strives to recall every incident,
    looking out over the sea, she descries an indistinct object
    floating in the water. At first she was in doubt what it was,
    but by degrees the waves bore it nearer, and it was plainly the
    body of a man. Though unknowing of whom, yet, as it was of some
    shipwrecked one, she was deeply moved, and gave it her tears,
    saying, "Alas! Unhappy one, and unhappy, if such there be, thy
    wife!" Borne by the waves, it came nearer. As she more and more
    nearly views it, she trembles more and more. Now, now it
    approaches the shore. Now marks that she recognizes appear. It
    is her husband! Stretching out her trembling hands towards it,
    she exclaims, "O, dearest husband, is it thus you return to me?"

    There was built out from the shore a mole, constructed to break
    the assaults of the sea, and stem its violent ingress. She
    leaped upon this barrier and (it was wonderful she could do so)
    she flew, and striking the air with wings produced on the
    instant, skimmed along the surface of the water, an unhappy bird.
    As she flew, her throat poured forth sounds full of grief, and
    like the voice of one lamenting. When she touched the mute and
    bloodless body, she enfolded its beloved limbs with her new-
    formed wings, and tried to give kisses with her horny beak.
    Whether Ceyx felt it, or whether it was only the action of the
    waves, those who looked on doubted, but the body seemed to raise
    its head. But indeed he did feel it, and by the pitying gods
    both of them were changed into birds. They mate and have their
    young ones. For seven placid days, in winter time, Halcyone
    broods over her nest, which floats upon the sea. Then the way is
    safe to seamen. Aeolus guards the winds, and keeps them from
    disturbing the deep. The sea is given up, for the time, to his
    grandchildren.

    The following lines from Byron's Bride of Abydos might seem
    borrowed from the concluding part of this description, if it were
    not stated that the author derived the suggestion from observing
    the motion of a floating corpse.

    "As shaken on his restless pillow,
    His head heaves with the heaving billow;
    That hand, whose motion is not life,
    Yet feebly seems to menace strife,
    Flung by the tossing tide on high,.
    Then levelled with the wave "

    Milton, in his Hymn for the Nativity, thus alludes to the fable
    of the Halcyon:

    "But peaceful was the night
    Wherein the Prince of light
    His reign of peace upon the earth began;
    The winds with wonder whist,
    Smoothly the waters kist,
    Whispering new joys to the mild ocean
    Who now hath quite forgot to rave
    While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave."

    Keats, also, in Endymion, says:

    "O magic sleep! O comfortable bird
    That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind
    Till it is hushed and smooth."

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