And, ripening, sadden’d in a dusky red;
While both their parents their lost children mourn,
And mix their ashes in one golden urn.”
Thus did the melancholy tale conclude,
And a short silent interval ensued.
The next in birth unloosed her artful tongue,
And drew attentive all the sister throng.
Story of Leucothoe and the Sun
Leucothoe is beloved by Apollo, who introduces himself to her by assuming the shape of her mother—Their affection is mutual; when Clytie, who tenderly loves the god, discovers the whole intrigue to the father of the maiden, who orders his daughter to be buried alive—Her lover, unable to save her from death, sprinkles nectar and ambrosia on her tomb, which, penetrating to her body, change it into a beautiful tree which bears the frankincense.
“The Sun, the source of light, by beauty’s power
Once amorous grew; then hear the sun’s amour.
Venus, and Mars, with his far-piercing eyes,
This god first spied; this god first all things spies.
Stung at the sight, and swift on mischief bent,
To haughty Juno’s shapeless son he went,
To him his consort’s shame to represent.
Poor Vulcan soon desired to hear no more,
He dropp’d his hammer, and he shook all o’er;
Then courage takes, and full of vengeful ire
He heaves the bellows, and blows fierce the fire;
From liquid brass, though sure, yet subtle snares
He forms, and next a wondrous net prepares,
Drawn with such curious art, so nicely sly,
Unseen the meshes cheat the searching eye.
Not half so thin their webs the spiders weave,
Which the most wary buzzing prey deceive.
These chains, obedient to the touch, he spread
In secret foldings o’er the conscious bed.
“Through heaven the news of this surprisal run,
But Venus did not thus forget the Sun.
He, who stolen transports idly had betray’d,
By a betrayer was in kind repaid.
What now avails, great god, thy piercing blaze,
That youth, and beauty, and those golden rays?
Thou, who canst warm this universe alone,
Feel’st now a warmth more pow’rful than thy own;
And those bright eyes, which all things should survey,
Know not from fair Leucothoe to stray.
The lamp of light, for human good design’d,
Is to one virgin niggardly confin’d.
Sometimes too early rise thy eastern beams,
Sometimes too late they set in western streams;
’Tis then her beauty thy swift course delays,
And gives to winter skies long summer days.
Now in thy face thy lovesick mind appears,
And spreads through impious nations empty fears;
For when thy beamless head is wrapp’d in night,
Poor mortals tremble in despair of light.
’Tis not the moon that o’er thee casts a veil,
’Tis love alone which makes thy looks so pale.
Leucothoe is grown thy only care,
Not Phaeton’s fair mother now is fair.
The youthful Rhodos moves no tender thought,
And beauteous Persa is at last forgot.
Fond Clytie, scorn’d, yet loved and sought thy bed,
Ev’n then thy heart for other virgins bled.
Leucothoe has all thy soul possess’d,
And chased each rival passion from thy breast.
To this bright nymph Eurynome gave birth,
In the bless’d confines of the spicy earth.
Excelling others, she herself beheld,
By her own blooming daughter far excell’d.
The sire was Orchamus, whose vast command,
The seventh from Belus, ruled the Persian land.
“Deep in cool vales, beneath the Hesperian sky,
For the Sun’s fiery steeds the pastures lie.
Ambrosia there they eat, and thence they gain
New vigour, and their daily toils sustain.
While thus on heavenly food the coursers fed,
And Night around her gloomy empire spread,
The god assumed the mother’s shape and air,
And pass’d unheeded to his darling fair.
Close by a lamp, with maids encompass’d round,
The royal spinster full employ’d he found:
Then cried, ‘Awhile from work, my daughter, rest,’
And, like a mother, scarce her lips he press’d.
‘Servants retire; nor secrets dare to hear,
Entrusted only to a daughter’s ear.’
They swift obey’d; not one, suspicious, thought
The secret which their mistress would be taught.
Then he: ‘Since now no witnesses are near,
Behold the god who guides the various year!
The world’s vast eye, of light the source serene,
Who all things sees, by whom are all things seen.
Believe me, nymph (for I the truth have show’d),
Thy charms have power to charm so great a god.’
Confused, she heard him his soft passion tell,
And on the floor, untwirl’d, the spindle fell:
Still from the sweet confusion some new grace
Blush’d out by stealth, and languish’d in her face.
The lover, now inflamed, himself put on,
And out at once the god all radiant shone.
The virgin startled at his alter’d form,
Too weak to bear a god’s impetuous storm.
“This Clytie knew, and knew she was undone,
Whose soul was fixed, and doted on the Sun.
She raged to think on her neglected charms,
And Phoebus panting in another’s arms.
With envious madness fired, she flies in haste,
And tells the king his daughter was unchaste.
The king, incensed to hear his honour stain’d,
No more the father nor the man retain’d.
In vain she stretch’d her arms, and turn’d her eyes
To her loved god, the enlightener of the skies.
In vain she own’d it was a crime, yet still
It was a crime not acted by her will.
The brutal sire stood deaf to every prayer,
And deep in earth entomb’d alive the fair.
What Phoebus could do was by Phoebus done,
Full on her grave with pointed beams he shone;
To pointed beams the gaping earth gave way;
Had the nymph eyes, her eyes had seen the day;
But lifeless now, yet lovely still, she lay.
Not more the god wept when the world was fired,
And in the wreck his blooming boy expired.
The vital flame he strives to light again,
And warm the frozen blood in every vein;
But since resistless fates denied that power,
On the cold nymph he rain’d a nectar shower.
‘Ah! undeserving thus,’ he said, ‘to die,
Yet still in odours thou shalt reach the sky.’
The body soon dissolved, and all around
Perfumed with heavenly fragrances the ground.
A sacrifice for gods uprose from thence,
A sweet delightful tree of frankincense.”
Transformation of Clytie
Clytie, being deserted by Apollo, pines away, and is changed into a sunflower, which still turns its head towards the sun, in token of her love.
“Though guilty Clytie thus the Sun betray’d,
By too much passion she was guilty made.
Excess of love begot excess of grief,
Grief fondly bade her hence to hope relief.
But angry Phoebus hears unmoved her sighs,
And scornful from her loath’d embraces flies.
All day, all
