Bulfinch's Mythology: The Age of Fable

Ch. 6: Vertumnus and Pomona, Cupid and Psyche

The Hamadryads were Wood-nymphs. Among them was Pomona, and no

one excelled her in love of the garden and the culture of fruit.

She cared not for forests and rivers, but loved the cultivated

country and trees that bear delicious apples. Her right hand

bore for its weapon not a javelin, but a pruning knife. Armed

with this, she worked at one time, to repress the too luxuriant

growths, and curtail the branches that straggled out of place; at

another, to split the twig and insert therein a graft, making the

branch adopt a nursling not its own. She took care, too, that

her favorites should not suffer from drought, and led streams of

water by them that the thirsty roots might drink. This

occupation was her pursuit, her passion; and she was free from

that which Venus inspires. She was not without fear of the

country people, and kept her orchard locked, and allowed not men

to enter. The Fauns and Satyrs would have given all they

possessed to win her, and so would old Sylvanus, who looks young

for his years, and Pan, who wears a garland of pine leaves around

his head. But Vertumnus loved her best of all; yet he sped no

better than the rest. Oh, how often, in the disguise of a

reaper, did he bring her corn in a basket, and looked the very

image of a reaper! With a hay-band tied round him, one would

think he had just come from turning over the grass. Sometimes he

would have an ox-goad in his hand, and you would have said he had

just unyoked his weary oxen. Now he bore a pruning-hook, and

personated a vine-dresser; and again with a ladder on his

shoulder, he seemed as if he was going to gather apples.

Sometimes he trudged along as a discharged soldier, and again he

bore a fishing-rod as if going to fish. In this way, he gained

admission to her, again and again, and fed his passion with the

sight of her.

One day he came in the guise of an old woman, her gray hair

surmounted with a cap, and a staff in her hand. She entered the

garden and admired the fruit. "It does you credit, my dear," she

said, and kissed Pomona, not exactly with an old woman's kiss.

She sat down on a bank, and looked up at the branches laden with

fruit which hung over her. Opposite was an elm entwined with a

vine loaded with swelling grapes. She praised the tree and its

associated vine, equally. "But," said Vertumnus, "if the tree

stood alone, and had no vine clinging to it, it would lie

prostrate on the ground. Why will you not take a lesson from the

tree and the vine, and consent to unite yourself with some one?

I wish you would. Helen herself had not more numerous suitors,

nor Penelope, the wife of shrewd Ulysses. Even while you spurn

them, they court you rural deities and others of every kind that

frequent these mountains. But if you are prudent and want to

make a good alliance, and will let an old woman advise you, who

loves you better than you have any idea of, dismiss all the

rest and accept Vertumnus, on my recommendation. I know him as

well as he knows himself. He is not a wandering deity, but

belongs to these mountains. Nor is he like too many of the

lovers nowadays, who love any one they happen to see; he loves

you, and you only. Add to this, he is young and handsome, and

has the art of assuming any shape he pleases, and can make

himself just what you command him. Moreover, he loves the same

things that you do, delights in gardening, and handles your

apples with admiration. But NOW he cares nothing for fruits, nor

flowers, nor anything else, but only yourself. Take pity on him,

and fancy him speaking now with my mouth. Remember that the gods

punish cruelty, and that Venus hates a hard heart, and will visit

such offenses sooner or later. To prove this, let me tell you a

story, which is well known in Cyprus to be a fact; and I hope it

will have the effect to make you more merciful.

"Iphis was a young man of humble parentage, who saw and loved

Anaxarete, a noble lady of the ancient family of Teucer. He

struggled long with his passion, but when he found he could not

subdue it, he came a suppliant to her mansion. First he told his

passion to her nurse, and begged her as she loved her foster-

child to favor his suit. And then he tried to win her domestics

to his side. Sometimes he committed his vows to written tablets,

and often hung at her door garlands which he had moistened with

his tears. He stretched himself on her threshold, and uttered

his complaints to the cruel bolts and bars. She was deafer than

the surges which rise in the November gale; harder than steel

from the German forges, or a rock that still clings to its native

cliff. She mocked and laughed at him, adding cruel words to her

ungentle treatment, and gave not the slightest gleam of hope.

"Iphis could not any longer endure the torments of hopeless love,

and standing before her doors, he spake these last words:

'Anaxarete, you have conquered, and shall no longer have to bear

my importunities. Enjoy your triumph! Sing songs of joy, and

bind your forehead with laurel, you have conquered! I die;

stony heart, rejoice! This at least I can do to gratify you, and

force you to praise me; and thus shall I prove that the love of

you left me but with life. Nor will I leave it to rumor to tell

you of my death. I will come myself, and you shall see me die,

and feast your eyes on the spectacle. Yet, Oh, ye gods, who look

down on mortal woes, observe my fate! I ask but this! Let me be

remembered in coming ages, and add those years to my name which

you have reft from my life.' Thus he said, and, turning his pale

face and weeping eyes towards her mansion, he fastened a rope to

the gate-post, on which he had hung garlands, and putting his

head into the noose, he murmured, 'This garland at least will

please you, cruel girl!' And falling, hung suspended with his

neck broken. As he fell he struck against the gate, and the

sound was as the sound of a groan. The servants opened the door

and found him dead, and with exclamations of pity raised him and

carried him home to his mother, for his father was not living.

She received the dead body of her son, and folded the cold form

to her bosom; while she poured forth the sad words which bereaved

mothers utter. The mournful funeral passed through the town, and

the pale corpse was borne on a bier to the place of the funeral

pile. By chance the home of Anaxarete was on the street where

the procession passed, and the lamentations of the mourners met

the ears of her whom the avenging deity had already marked for

punishment.

"'Let us see this sad procession,' said she, and mounted to a

turret, whence through an open window she looked upon the

funeral. Scarce had her eyes rested upon the form of Iphis

stretched on the bier, when they began to stiffen, and the warm

blood in her body to become cold. Endeavoring to step back, she

found she could not move her feet; trying to turn away her face,

she tried in vain; and by degrees all her limbs became stony like

her heart. That you may not doubt the fact, the statue still

remains, and stands in the temple of Venus at Salamis, in the

exact form of the lady. Now think of these things, my dear, and

lay aside your scorn and your delays, and accept a lover. So may

neither the vernal frosts blight your young fruits, nor furious

winds scatter your blossoms!"

When Vertumnus had spoken thus, he dropped the disguise of an old

woman, and stood before her in his proper person, as a comely

youth. It appeared to her like the sun bursting through a cloud.

He would have renewed his entreaties, but there was no need; his

arguments and the sight of his true form prevailed, and the Nymph

no longer resisted, but owned a mutual flame.

Pomona was the especial patroness of the apple-orchard, and as

such she was invoked by Phillips, the author of a poem on Cider,

in blank verse, in the following lines:

"What soil the apple loves, what care is due

To orchats, timeliest when to press the fruits,

Thy gift, Pomona, in Miltonian verse

Adventurous I presume to sing."

Thomson, in the Seasons, alludes to Phillips:

"Phillips, Pomona's bard, the second thou

Who nobly durst, in rhyme-unfettered verse,

With British freedom, sing the British song."

It will be seen that Thomson refers to the poet's reference to

Milton, but it is not true that Phillips is only the second

writer of English blank verse. Many other poets beside Milton

had used it long before Phillips' time.

But Pomona was also regarded as presiding over other fruits, and,

as such, is invoked by Thomson:

"Bear me, Pomona, to thy citron groves,

To where the lemon and the piercing lime,

With the deep orange, glowing through the green,

Their lighter glories blend. Lay me reclined

Beneath the spreading tamarind, that shakes,

Fanned by the breeze, its fever-cooling fruit."

CUPID AND PSYCHE

A certain king had three daughters. (This seems to be one of the

latest fables of the Greek mythology. It has not been found

earlier than the close of the second century of the Christian

era. It bears marks of the higher religious notions of that

time.) The two elder were charming girls, but the beauty of the

youngest was so wonderful that language is too poor to express

its due praise. The fame of her beauty was so great that

strangers from neighboring countries came in crowds to enjoy the

sight, and looked on her with amazement, paying her that homage

which is due only to Venus herself. In fact, Venus found her

altars deserted, while men turned their devotion to this young

virgin. As she passed along, the people sang her praises, and

strewed her way with chaplets and flowers.

This perversion to a mortal of the homage due only to the

immortal powers gave great offence to the real Venus. Shaking

her ambrosial locks with indignation, she exclaimed, "Am I then

to be eclipsed in my honors by a mortal girl? In vain then did

that royal shepherd, whose judgment was approved by Jove himself,

give me the palm of beauty over my illustrious rivals, Pallas and

June. But she shall not so quietly usurp my honors. I will give

her cause to repent of so unlawful a beauty."

Thereupon she calls her winged son Cupid, mischievous enough in

his own nature, and rouses and provokes him yet more by her

complaints. She points out Psyche to him, and says, "My dear

son, punish that contumacious beauty; give thy mother a revenge

as sweet as her injuries are great; infuse into the bosom of that

haughty girl a passion for some low, mean, unworthy being, so

that she may reap a mortification as great as her present

exultation and triumph."

Cupid prepared to obey the commands of his mother. There are two

fountains in Venus's garden, one of sweet waters, the other of

bitter. Cupid filled two amber vases, one from each fountain,

and suspending them from the top of his quiver, hastened to the

chamber of Psyche, whom he found asleep. He shed a few drops

from the bitter fountain over her lips, though the sight of her

almost moved him to pity; then touched her side with the point of

his arrow. At the touch she awoke, and opened eyes upon Cupid

(himself invisible) which so startled him that in his confusion

he wounded himself with his own arrow. Heedless of his wound his

whole thought now was to repair the mischief he had done, and he

poured the balmy drops of joy over all her silken ringlets.

Psyche, henceforth frowned upon by Venus, derived no benefit from

all her charms. True, all eyes were cast eagerly upon her, and

every mouth spoke her praises; but neither king, royal youth, nor

plebeian presented himself to demand her in marriage. Her two

elder sisters of moderate charms had now long been married to two

royal princes; but Psyche, in her lonely apartment, deplored her

solitude, sick of that beauty, which, while it procured abundance

of flattery, had failed to awaken love.

Her parents, afraid that they had unwittingly incurred the anger

of the gods, consulted the oracle of Apollo, and received this

answer: "The virgin is destined for the bride of no mortal lover.

Her future husband awaits her on the top of the mountain. He is

a monster whom neither gods nor men can resist."

This dreadful decree of the oracle filled all the people with

dismay, and her parents abandoned themselves to grief. But

Psyche said, "Why, my dear parents, do you now lament me? You

should rather have grieved when the people showered upon me

undeserved honors, and with one voice called me a Venus. I now

perceive that I am a victim to that name. I submit. Lead me to

that rock to which my unhappy fate has destined me." Accordingly,

all things being prepared, the royal maid took her place in the

procession, which more resembled a funeral than a nuptial pomp,

and with her parents, amid the lamentations of the people,

ascended the mountain, on the summit of which they left her

alone, and with sorrowful hearts returned home.

While Psyche stood on the ridge of the mountain, panting with

fear and with eyes full of tears, the gentle Zephyr raised her

from the earth and bore her with an easy motion into a flowery

dale. By degrees her mind became composed, and she laid herself

down on the grassy bank to sleep. When she awoke, refreshed with

sleep, she looked round and beheld nearby a pleasant grove of

tall and stately trees. She entered it, and in the midst

discovered a fountain, sending forth clear and crystal waters,

and hard by, a magnificent palace whose August front impressed

the spectator that it was not the work of mortal hands, but the

happy retreat of some god. Drawn by admiration and wonder, she

approached the building and ventured to enter. Every object she

met filled her with pleasure and amazement. Golden pillars

supported the vaulted roof, and the walls were enriched with

carvings and paintings representing beasts of the chase and rural

scenes, adapted to delight the eye of the beholder. Proceeding

onward she perceived that besides the apartments of state there

were others, filled with all manner of treasures, and beautiful

and precious productions of nature and art.

While her eyes were thus occupied, a voice addressed her, though

she saw no one, uttering these words: "Sovereign lady, all that

you see is yours. We whose voices you hear are your servants,

and shall obey all your commands with our utmost care and

diligence. Retire therefore to your chamber and repose on your

bed of down, and when you see fit repair to the bath. Supper

will await you in the adjoining alcove when it pleases you to

take your seat there."

Psyche gave ear to the admonitions of her vocal attendants, and

after repose and the refreshment of the bath, seated herself in

the alcove, where a table immediately presented itself, without

any visible aid from waiters or servants, and covered with the

greatest delicacies of food and the most nectareous wines. Her

ears too were feasted with music from invisible performers; of

whom one sang, another played on the lute, and all closed in the

wonderful harmony of a full chorus.

She had not yet seen her destined husband. He came only in the

hours of darkness, and fled before the dawn of morning, but his

accents were full of love, and inspired a like passion in her.

She often begged him to stay and let her behold him, but he would

not consent. On the contrary, he charged her to make no attempt

to see him, for it was his pleasure, for the best of reasons, to

keep concealed. "Why should you wish to behold me?" he said.

"Have you any doubt of my love? Have you any wish ungratified?

If you saw me, perhaps you would fear me, perhaps adore me, but

all I ask of you is to love me. I would rather you would love me

as an equal than adore me as a god."

This reasoning somewhat quieted Psyche for a time, and while the

novelty lasted she felt quite happy. But at length the thought

of her parents, left in ignorance of her fate, and of her

sisters, precluded from sharing with her the delights of her

situation, preyed on her mind and made her begin to feel her

palace as but a splendid prison. When her husband came one

night, she told him her distress, and at last drew from him an

unwilling consent that her sisters should be brought to see her.

So calling Zephyr, she acquainted him with her husband's

commands, and he, promptly obedient, soon brought them across the

mountain down to their sister's valley. They embraced her and

she returned their caresses. "Come," said Psyche, "enter with me

my house and refresh yourselves with whatever your sister has to

offer." Then taking their hands she led them into her golden

palace, and committed them to the care of her numerous train of

attendant voices, to refresh them in her baths and at her table,

and to show them all her treasures. The view of these celestial

delights caused envy to enter their bosoms, at seeing their young

sister possessed of such state and splendor, so much exceeding

their own.

They asked her numberless questions, among others what sort of a

person her husband was. Psyche replied that he was a beautiful

youth, who generally spent the daytime in hunting upon the

mountains. The sisters, not satisfied with this reply, soon made

her confess that she had never seen him. Then they proceeded to

fill her bosom with dark suspicions. "Call to mind," they said,

"the Pythian oracle that declared you destined to marry a direful

and tremendous monster. The inhabitants of this valley say that

your husband is a terrible and monstrous serpent, who nourishes

you for a while with dainties that he may by and by devour you.

Take our advice. Provide yourself with a lamp and a sharp knife;

put them in concealment that your husband may not discover them,

and when he is sound asleep, slip out of bed bring forth your

lamp and see for yourself whether what they say is true or not.

If it is, hesitate not to cut off the monster's head, and thereby

recover your liberty."

Psyche resisted these persuasions as well as she could, but they

did not fail to have their effect on her mind, and when her

sisters were gone, their words and her own curiosity were too

strong for her to resist. So she prepared her lamp and a sharp

knife, and hid them out of sight of her husband. When he had

fallen into his first sleep, she silently rose and uncovering her

lamp beheld not a hideous monster, but the most beautiful and

charming of the gods, with his golden ringlets wandering over his

snowy neck and crimson cheek, with two dewy wings on his

shoulders, whiter than snow, and with shining feathers like the

tender blossoms of spring. As she leaned the lamp over to have a

nearer view of his face a drop of burning oil fell on the

shoulder of the god, startled with which he opened his eyes and

fixed them full upon her; then, without saying one word, he

spread his white wings and flew out of the window. Psyche, in

vain endeavoring to follow him, fell from the window to the

ground. Cupid, beholding her as she lay in the dust, stopped his

flight for an instant and said, "O foolish Psyche, is it thus you

repay my love? After having disobeyed my mother's commands and

made you my wife, will you think me a monster and cut off my

head? But go; return to your sisters, whose advice you seem to

think preferable to mine. I inflict no other punishment on you

than to leave you forever. Love cannot dwell with suspicion."

So saying he fled away, leaving poor Psyche prostrate on the

ground, filling the place with mournful lamentations.

When she had recovered some degree of composure she looked around

her, but the palace and gardens had vanished, and she found

herself in the open field not far from the city where her sisters

dwelt. She repaired thither and told them the whole story of her

misfortunes, at which, pretending to grieve, those spiteful

creatures inwardly rejoiced; "for now," said they, "he will

perhaps choose one of us." With this idea, without saying a word

of her intentions, each of them rose early the next morning and

ascended the mountain, and having reached the top, called upon

Zephyr to receive her and bear her to his lord; then leaping up,

and not being sustained by Zephyr, fell down the precipice and

was dashed to pieces.

Psyche meanwhile wandered day and night, without food or repose,

in search of her husband. Casting her eyes on a lofty mountain

having on its brow a magnificent temple, she sighed and said to

herself, "Perhaps my love, my lord, inhabits there," and directed

her steps thither.

She had no sooner entered than she saw heaps of corn, some in

loose ears and some in sheaves, with mingled ears of barley.

Scattered about lay sickles and rakes, and all the instruments of

harvest, without order, as if thrown carelessly out of the weary

reapers' hands in the sultry hours of the day.

This unseemly confusion the pious Psyche put an end to, by

separating and sorting every thing to its proper place and kind,

believing that she ought to neglect none of the gods, but

endeavor by her piety to engage them all in her behalf. The holy

Ceres, whose temple it was, finding her so religiously employed,

thus spoke to her: "O Psyche, truly worthy of our pity, though I

cannot shield you from the frowns of Venus, yet I can teach you

how best to allay her displeasure. Go then, voluntarily

surrender yourself to your lady and sovereign, and try by modesty

and submission to win her forgiveness; perhaps her favor will

restore you the husband you have lost."

Psyche obeyed the commands of Ceres and took her way to the

temple of Venus, endeavoring to fortify her mind and thinking of

what she should say and how she should best propitiate the angry

goddess, feeling that the issue was doubtful and perhaps fatal.

Venus received her with angry countenance. "Most undutiful and

faithless of servants," said she, "do you at last remember that

you really have a mistress? Or have you rather come to see your

sick husband, yet suffering from the wound given him by his

loving wife? You are so ill-favored and disagreeable that the

only way you can merit your lover must be by dint of industry and

diligence. I will make trial of your housewifery." Then she

ordered Psyche to be led to the storehouse of her temple, where

was laid up a great quantity of wheat, barley, millet, vetches,

beans, and lentils prepared for food for her doves, and said,

"Take and separate all these grains, putting all of the same kind

in a parcel by themselves, and see that you get it done before

evening." Then Venus departed and left her to her task.

But Psyche, in perfect consternation at the enormous work, sat

stupid and silent, without moving a finger to the inextricable

heap.

While she sat despairing, Cupid stirred up the little ant, a

native of the fields, to take compassion on her. The leader of

the ant-hill, followed by whole hosts of his six-legged subjects,

approached the heap, and with the utmost diligence taking grain

by grain, they separated the pile, sorting each kind to its

parcel; and when it was all done, they vanished out of sight in a

moment.

Venus at the approach of twilight returned from the banquet of

the gods, breathing odors and crowned with roses. Seeing the

task done she exclaimed, "This is no work of yours wicked one,

but his, whom to your own and his misfortune you have enticed."

So saying, she threw her a piece of black bread for her supper

and went away.

Next morning Venus ordered Psyche to be called, and said to her,

"Behold yonder grove which stretches along the margin of the

water. There you will find sheep feeding without a shepherd,

with golden-shining fleeces on their backs. Go, fetch me a

sample of that precious wool gathered from every one of their

fleeces.

Psyche obediently went to the river-side, prepared to do her best

to execute the command. But the river-god inspired the reeds

with harmonious murmurs, which seemed to say, "O maiden, severely

tried, tempt not the dangerous flood, nor venture among the

formidable rams on the other side, for as long as they are under

the influence of the rising sun, they burn with a cruel rage to

destroy mortals with their sharp horns or rude teeth. But when

the noontide sun has driven the flock to the shade, and the

serene spirit of the flood has lulled them to rest, you may then

cross in safety, and you will find the woolly gold sticking to

the bushes and the trunks of the trees."

Thus the compassionate river-god gave Psyche instructions how to

accomplish her task, and by observing his directions she soon

returned to Venus with her arms full of the golden fleece; but

she received not the approbation of her implacable mistress, who

said, "I know very well it is by none of your own doings that you

have succeeded in this task, and I am not satisfied yet that you

have any capacity to make yourself useful. But I have another

task for you. Here, take this box, and go your way to the

infernal shades, and give this box to Proserpine, and say, 'My

mistress Venus desires you to send her a little of your beauty,

for in tending her sick son she has lost come of her own.' Be

not too long on your errand, for I must paint myself with it to

appear at the circle of the gods and goddesses this evening."

Psyche was now satisfied that her destruction was at hand, being

obliged to go with her own feet directly down to Erebus.

Wherefore, to make no delay of what was not to be avoided, she

goes to the top of a high tower to precipitate herself headlong,

thus to descend the shortest way to the shades below. But a

voice from the tower said to her, "Why, poor unlucky girl, dost

thou design to put an end to thy days in so dreadful a manner?

And what cowardice makes thee sink under this last danger, who

hast been so miraculously supported in all thy former?" Then the

voice told her how by a certain cave she might reach the realms

of Pluto, and how to avoid all the dangers of the road, to pass

by Cerberus, the three-headed dog, and prevail on Charon, the

ferryman, to take her across the black river and bring her back

again. But the voice added, "When Proserpine has given you the

box, filled with her beauty, of all things this is chiefly to be

observed by you, that you never once open or look into the box

nor allow your curiosity to pry into the treasure of the beauty

of the goddesses.

Psyche encouraged by this advice obeyed it in all things, and

taking heed to her ways travelled safely to the kingdom of Pluto.

She was admitted to the palace of Proserpine, and without

accepting the delicate seat or delicious banquet that was offered

her, but contented with coarse bread for her food, she delivered

her message from Venus. Presently the box was returned to her,

shut and filled with the precious commodity. Then she returned

the way she came, and glad was she to come out once more into the

light of day.

But having got so far successfully through her dangerous task a

longing desire seized her to examine the contents of the box.

"What," said she, "shall I, the carrier of this divine beauty,

not take the least bit to put on my cheeks to appear to more

advantage in the eyes of my beloved husband!:" So she carefully

opened the box, but found nothing there of any beauty at all, but

an infernal and truly Stygian sleep, which being thus set free

from its prison, took possession of her, and she fell down in the

midst of the road, a sleepy corpse without sense or motion.

But Cupid being now recovered from his wound, and not able longer

to bear the absence of his beloved Psyche, slipping through the

smallest crack of the window of his chamber which happened to be

left open, flew to the spot where Psyche lay, and gathering up

the sleep from her body closed it again in the box, and waked

Psyche with a light touch of one of his arrows. "Again," said

he, "hast thou almost perished by the same curiosity. But now

perform exactly the task imposed on you by my mother, and I will

take care of the rest."

Then Cupid, as 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

so earnestly with Venus that he won her consent. On this he sent

Mercury to bring Psyche up to the heavenly assembly, and when she

arrived, handing her a cup of ambrosia, he said, "Drink this,

Psyche, and be immortal; nor shall Cupid ever break away from the

knot in which he is tied, but these nuptials shall be perpetual."

Thus Psyche became at last united to Cupid, and in due time they

had a daughter born to them whose name was Pleasure.

The fable of Cupid and Psyche is usually considered allegorical.

The Greek name for a butterfly is Psyche, and the same word means

the soul. There is no illustration of the immortality of the

soul so striking and beautiful as the butterfly, bursting on

brilliant wings from the tomb in which it has lain, after a dull,

grovelling caterpillar existence, to flutter in the blaze of day

and feed on the most fragrant and delicate productions of the

spring. Psyche, then, is the human soul, which is purified by

sufferings and misfortunes, and is thus prepared for the

enjoyment of true and pure happiness.

In works of art Psyche is represented as a maiden with the wings

of a butterfly, alone or with Cupid, in the different situations

described in the allegory.

Milton alludes to the story of Cupid and Psyche in the conclusion

of his Comus:--

"Celestial Cupid, her famed son, advanced,

Holds his dear Psyche sweet entranced,

After her wandering labors long,

Till free consent the gods among

Make her his eternal bride;

And from her fair unspotted side

Two blissful twins are to be born,

Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn."

The allegory of the story of Cupid and Psyche is well presented

in the beautiful lines of T. K. Hervey:--

"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 worshipper,

To seek on earth for him whose home was heaven!

"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!"

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 legends of

the Age of Fable. It is this that Keats alludes to in his Ode to

Psyche.

"O latest born and loveliest vision far

Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!

Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-regioned star

Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm 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."

In Moore's Summer Fete, a fancy ball is described, in which one

of the characters personated is Psyche.

" not in dark disguise to-night

Hath our young heroine veiled her light;

For see, she walks the earth, Love's own.

His wedded bride, by holiest vow

Pledged in Olympus, and made known

To mortals by the type which now

Hangs glittering on her snowy brow,

That butterfly, mysterious trinket,

Which means the soul (though few would think it),

And sparkling thus on brow so white,

Tells us we've Psyche here to-night."