From her knees; and her feet to the earth seemed rooted; and one after one
Her handmaidens all drew back, and with him was she left alone.
So these twain stood—all stirless and wordless stood face to face:
As oaks they seemed, or as pines upsoaring in stately grace,
Which side by side all still mid the mountains rooted stand
When winds are hushed; but by breath of the breeze when at last they are fanned,
Stir they with multitudinous murmur and sigh—so they
By love’s breath stirred were to pour out all in their hearts that lay.
Then Aison’s son beheld how the maiden’s soul was adread
With wilderment heaven-sent, and kindly-courteous he said:
“Wherefore, O maiden, dost fear me so sorely, alone as I am?
Never was I as the loud-tongued blusterers, void of shame,
No, not when aforetime I dwelt in my fatherland oversea:
Wherefore be thou not, maiden, over-abashed before me,
That thou shouldst not inquire whatsoever thou wilt, or utter thy mind.
But, seeing we twain be met with friendly hearts and kind
In a place where sin is of heaven accurst, in a hallowed spot,
Speak thou, and question withal as thou wilt: but beguile me not
With pleasant words, forasmuch as thou gavest thy promise erewhile
To thy sister, to give me the charm that I long for, the herbs of guile.
I beseech thee in Hekatê’s name—for the sake of thy parents I pray,
And of Zeus, that o’er stranger and suppliant stretcheth his hand alway!
Lo, a suppliant am I, a stranger withal, which am come to thee here,
In sore straits bending the knee; for in this my task of fear
Shall I nowise prevail, except I be holpen of thine and thee.
And to thee will I render requital of thanks in the days to be—
As is meet and right for them in a far-away land which dwell—
Making glorious thy name and thy fame, and mine hero-companions shall tell
The story of thy renown, when to Hellas again they have won;
Yea, and the heroes’ wives and mothers, who now make moan
For us, I ween, on the strand as they sit by the sighing brine:
And to scatter in air their bitter affliction is thine—is thine!
Not I were the first—was Theseus not saved from the ordeal grim
By Minos’ child for her kindness’ sake which she bare unto him,
Ariadne, born of the Sun-god’s daughter Pasiphaê?
But she, when slumbered the wrath of Minos, over the sea
Sailed with the hero, forsaking her land. The Immortals divine
Loved well that maid: in the midst of the firmament set is her sign,
A crown of stars, which they name Ariadne’s diadem,
All night circling amidst of the signs that the heavens begem.
Thou also shalt have of the Gods like thanks, if thou shalt redeem
From destruction so goodly a host of heroes—ah, needs must it seem
That through form so lovely as thine should the beauty of kindness beam!”
Extolling her so spake he; and her eyelids drooped, while played
A nectar-smile on her lips; and melted the heart of the maid
By his praising uplifted: her eyes are a moment upraised to his eyes,
And all speech faileth: no word at the first to her lips may rise;
But in one breath yearned she to speak forth all her joy and her pain.
And with hand ungrudging forth from her odorous zone hath she ta’en
The charm, and he straightway received it into his hands full fain.
Yea, now would she even have drawn forth all her soul from her breast,
And had laid it with joy in his hands for her gift, had he made request,
So wondrously now from the golden head of Aison’s son
Did Love out-lighten the witchery-flame; and her sweet eyes shone
With the gleam that he stole therefrom, and her heart glowed through and through
Melting for rapture away, from the lips of the rose as the dew
At the sun’s kiss melteth away, when the dayspring is kindled anew.
And these twain now on the earth were fixing their eyes abashed,
And anon yet again their glances each on the other they flashed,
As with radiant eyelids they smiled a heart-beguiling smile:
And bespake him the maiden at last, yet scarce after all this while:
“Give thou heed now, that my counsel may haply be for thine aid.
What time at thy coming my father within thine hands shall have laid
The crop of the serpent’s jaws for thy sowing, the teeth of bane,
Then shalt thou watch for the hour when the night is sundered in twain.
Then thou, when first in the river’s tireless flow thou hast bathed,
Alone, with none other beside thee, in night-hued vesture swathed,
Shalt dig thee a rounded pit, and over the dark earth-bowl
Shalt thou slaughter a ewe, and shalt burn the unsevered carcase whole
On a pyre, the which on the very brink of the pit thou hast piled,
And propitiate only-begotten Hekatê, Perseus’ child,
Out of a chalice pouring the hive-stored toil of the bee.
So when thou hast sought the grace of the Goddess heedfully,
Then turn thee to pass from the pyre, and beware lest any sound
Or of footfalls behind thee startle thee, so that thou turn thee round,
Or of baying of hounds, lest all that is wrought be undone thereby,
And thyself to thine hero-companions never again draw nigh.
And in water at dawn shalt thou steep this herb, and thy limbs shalt thou bare,
And even as with oil shalt anoint thee therewith; and prowess there
Shalt thou find, and strength exceeding great: thou wouldst nowise say
That with men thou couldst match thee in might, but with Gods that abide for aye.
Therewithal be thy lance and thy buckler besprent with the magic dew,
And thy sword: then shall not the spear-heads prevail to pierce thee through
Of the Earth-born men, nor the fiery breath of the bulls of bane
Unendurably darting. Yet no long time shalt thou thus remain,
But only for that same day: notwithstanding flinch not thou
From the toil; and another thing yet for thine help will I tell to thee now:
So soon as the mighty bulls thou hast yoked, and by manifold toil
And by strength of thine hands hast sped the share through the stubborn soil,
And adown the furrows the
