And ‘gainst the hard earth arm her lovely feet:

  Then she went forth, some shepherd king to meet

  Deep in the hollow of a shaded vale,

  To make his woes a long-enduring tale.

  BUT over Psyche, hapless and forlorn,

  Unseen the sun rose on the morrow morn,

  Nor knew she aught about the death of night

  Until her gaoler’s torches filled with light

  The dreary place, blinding her unused eyes,

  And she their voices heard that bade her rise;

  She did their bidding, yet grown faint and pale

  She shrank away and strove her arms to veil

  In her gown’s bosom, and to hide from them

  Her little feet within her garment’s hem;

  But mocking her, they brought her thence away,

  And led her forth into the light of day,

  And brought her to a marble cloister fair

  Where sat the queen on her adorned chair,

  But she, as down the sun-streaked place they came,

  Cried out, “Haste! ye, who lead my grief and shame.”

  And when she stood before her trembling, said,

  “Although within a palace thou wast bred

  Yet dost thou carry but a slavish heart,

  And fitting is it thou shouldst learn thy part,

  And know the state whereunto thou art brought;

  Now, heed what yesterday thy folly taught,

  And set thyself to-day my will to do;

  Ho ye, bring that which I commanded you.”

  Then forth came two, and each upon her back

  Bore up with pain a huge half-bursten sack,

  Which, setting down, they opened on the floor,

  And from their hempen mouths a stream did pour

  Of mingled seeds, and grain, peas, pulse, and wheat,

  Poppies and millet, and coriander sweet,

  And many another brought from far-off lands,

  Which mingling more with swift and ready hands

  They piled into a heap confused and great.

  And then said Venus, rising from her seat,

  “Slave, here I leave thee, but before the night

  These mingled seeds thy hands shall set aright,

  All laid in heaps, each after its own kind,

  And if in any heap I chance to find

  An alien seed; thou knowest since yesterday

  How disobedient slaves the forfeit pay.”

  Therewith she turned and left the palace fair

  And from its outskirts rose into the air,

  And flew until beneath her lay the sea,

  Then, looking on its green waves lovingly,

  Somewhat she dropped, and low adown she flew

  Until she reached the temple that she knew

  Within a sunny bay of her fair isle.

  But Psyche sadly labouring all the while

  With hopeless heart felt the swift hours go by,

  And knowing well what bitter mockery

  Lay in that task, yet did she what she might

  That something should be finished ere the night,

  And she a little mercy yet might ask;

  But the first hours of that long feverish task

  Passed amid mocks; for oft the damsels came

  About her, and made merry with her shame,

  And laughed to see her trembling eagerness,

  And how, with some small lappet of her dress,

  She winnowed out the wheat, and how she bent

  Over the millet, hopelessly intent;

  And how she guarded well some tiny heap

  But just begun, from their long raiments’ sweep;

  And how herself, with girt gown, carefully

  She went betwixt the heaps that ‘gan to lie

  Along the floor; though they were small enow,

  When shadows lengthened and the sun was low;

  But at the last these left her labouring,

  Not daring now to weep, lest some small thing

  Should ‘scape her blinded eyes, and soon far off

  She heard the echoes of their careless scoff.

  Longer the shades grew, quicker sank the sun,

  Until at last the day was well-nigh done,

  And every minute did she think to hear

  The fair Queen’s dreaded footsteps drawing near;

  But Love, that moves the earth, and skies, and sea,

  Beheld his old love in her misery,

  And wrapped her heart in sudden gentle sleep;

  And meanwhile caused unnumbered ants to creep

  About her, and they wrought so busily

  That all, ere sundown, was as it should be,

  And homeward went again the kingless folk.

  Bewildered with her joy again she woke,

  But scarce had time the unseen hands to bless,

  That thus had helped her utter feebleness,

  Ere Venus came, fresh from the watery way,

  Panting with all the pleasure of the day;

  But when she saw the ordered heaps, her smile

  Faded away, she cried out, “Base and vile

  Thou art indeed, this labour fitteth thee;

  But now I know thy feigned simplicity,

  Thine inward cunning, therefore hope no more,

  Since thou art furnished well with hidden lore,

  To ‘scape thy due reward, if any day

  Without some task accomplished, pass away!”

  So with a frown she passed on, muttering,

  “Nought have I done, to-morrow a new thing.”

  So the next morning Psyche did they lead

  Unto a terrace o’er a flowery mead,

  Where Venus sat, hid from the young sun’s rays,

  Upon the fairest of all summer days;

  She pointed o’er the meads. as they drew nigh,

  And said, “See how that stream goes glittering by,

  And on its banks my golden sheep now pass,

  Cropping sweet mouthfuls of the flowery grass;

  If thou, O cunning slave, to-day art fain

  To save thyself from well-remembered pain,

  Put forth a little of thy hidden skill,

  And with their golden fleece thy bosom fill;

  Yet make no haste, but ere the sun is down

  Cast it before my feet from out thy gown;

  Surely thy labour is but light to-day.”

  Then sadly went poor Psyche on her way,

  Wondering wherein the snare lay, for she knew

  No easy thing it was she had to do;

  Nor had she failed indeed to note the smile

  Wherewith the goddess praised her for the guile

  That she, unhappy, lacked so utterly.

  Amidst these thoughts she crossed the flowery lea,

  And came unto the glittering river’s side;

  And, seeing it was neither deep nor wide,

  She drew her sandals off, and to the knee

  Girt up her gown, and by a willow-tree

  Went down into the water, and but sank

  Up to mid-leg therein; but from the bank

  She scarce had gone three steps, before a voice

  Called out to her, “Stay, Psyche, and rejoice

  That I am here to help thee, a poor reed,

  The soother of the loving hearts that bleed,

  The pourer forth of notes, that oft have made

  The weak man strong, and the rash man afraid.

  “Sweet child, when by me now thy dear foot trod,

  I knew thee for the loved one of our god;

  Then prithee take my counsel in good part;

  Go to the shore again, and rest thine heart

  In sleep awhile, until the sun get low,

  And then across the river shalt thou go

  And find these evil creatures sleeping fast,

  And on the bushes whereby they have passed

  Much golden wool; take what seems good to thee,

  And ere the sun sets go back easily.

  But if within that mead thou sett’st thy feet

  While yet they wake, an ill death shalt thou meet,

  For they are of a cursed man-hating race,

  Bred by a giant in a lightless place.”

  But at these words soft tears filled Psyche’s eyes

  As hope of love within her heart did rise;

  And when she saw she was not helpless yet

  Her old desire she would not quite forget;

  But turning back, upon the bank she lay

  In happy dreams till nigh the end of day;

  Then did she cross and gather of the wool,

  And with her bosom and her gown-skirt full

  Came back to Venus at the sun-setting;

  But she afar off saw it glistering

  And cried aloud, “Go, take the slave away,

  And keep her safe for yet another day,

  And on the morning will I think again

  Of some fresh task, since with so little pain

  She doeth what the gods find hard enow;

  For since the winds were pleased this waif to blow

  Unto my door, a fool I were indeed,

  If I should fail to use her for my need.”

  So her they led away from that bright sun,

  Now scarce more hopeful that the task was done,

  Since by those bitter words she knew full well

  Another tale the coming day would tell.

  But the next morn upon a turret high,

  Where the wind kissed her raiment lovingly,

  Stood Venus waiting her; and when she came

  She said, “O slave, thy city’s very shame,

  Lift up thy cunning eyes, and looking hence

  Shalt thou behold betwixt these battlements,

  A black and barren mountain set aloof

  From the green hills, shaped like a palace roof.

  Ten leagues from hence it lieth, toward the north,

  And from its rocks a fountain welleth forth,

  Black like itself, and floweth down its side,

  And in a while part into Styx doth glide,

  And part into Cocytus runs away;

  Now coming thither by the end of day,

  Fill me this ewer from the awful stream;

  Such task a sorceress like thee will deem

  A little matter; bring it not to pass,

  And if thou be not made of steel or brass,

  To-morrow shalt thou find the bitterest day

  Thou yet hast known, and all be sport and play

  To what thy heart in that hour shall endure —

  Behold, I swear it, and my word is sure!”

  She turned therewith to go down toward the sea,

  To meet her lover, who from Thessaly

  Was come from some well-foughten field of war.

  But Psyche, wandering wearily afar,

  Reached the bare foot of that black rock at last,

  And sat there grieving for the happy past,

  For surely now, she thought, no help could be,

  She had but reached the final misery,

  Nor had she any counsel but to wee

  For not alone the place was very steep,

  And craggy beyond measure, but she knew

  What well it was that she was driven to,

  The dreadful water that the gods swear by,

  For there on either hand, as one draws nigh,

  Are long-necked dragons ready for the spring,

  And many another monstrous nameless thing,

  The very sight of which is well-nigh death;

  Then the black water as it goes crieth,

  “Fly, wretched one, before you come to die!

  Die, wretched man! I will not let you fly!

  How have you heart to come before me here?

  You have no heart, your life is turned to fear!”

  Till the wretch falls adown with whirling brain,

  And far below the sharp rocks end his pain.

  Well then might Psyche wail her wretched fate,

  And strive no more, but sitting weep and wait

  Alone in that black land for kindly death,

  With weary sobbing, wasting life and breath;

  But o’er her head there flew the bird of Jove,

  The bearer of his servant, friend of Love,

  Who, when he saw her, straightway towards her flew,

  And asked her why she wept, and when he knew,

  And who she was, he said, “Cease all thy fear,

  For to the black waves I thy ewer will bear,

  And fill it for thee; but, remember me,

  When thou art come unto thy majesty.”

  Then straight he flew, and through the dragon’s wings

  Went carelessly, nor feared their clatterings,

  But set the ewer, filled, in her right hand,

  And on that day saw many another land.

  Then Psyche through the night toiled back again,

  And as she went, she thought, “Ah! all is vain,

  For though once more I just escape indeed,

  Yet hath she many another will at need;

  And to these days when I my life first learn,

  With unavailing longing shall I turn,

  When this that seemeth now so horrible

  Shall then seem but the threshold of her hell.

  Alas! what shall I do? for even now

  In sleep I see her pitiless white brow,

  And hear the dreadful sound of her commands,

  While with my helpless body and bound hands

  I tremble underneath the cruel whips;

  And oft for dread of her, with quivering lips

  I wake, and waking know the time draws nigh

  When nought shall wake me from that misery —

  Behold, O Love, because of thee I live,

  Because of thee, with these things still I strive.”

  NOW with the risen sun her weary feet

  The fresh-strewn roses of the floor did meet

  Upon the marble threshold of the place;

  But she being brought before the matchless face,

  Fresh with the new life of another day,

  Beheld her wondering, for the goddess lay

  With half-shut eyes upon her golden bed,

  And when she entered scarcely turned her head,

  But smiling spake, “The gods are good to thee,

  Nor shalt thou always be mine enemy;

  But one more task I charge thee with to-day,

  For unto Proserpine take thou thy way,

  And give this golden casket to her hands,

  And pray the fair Queen of the gloomy lands

  To fill the void shell with that beauty rare

  That long ago as queen did set her there;

  Nor needest thou to fail in this new thing,

  Who hast to-day the heart and wit to bring

  This dreadful water, and return alive;

  And, that thou may’st the more in this thing strive,

  If thou returnest I will show at last

  My kindness unto thee, and all the past

  Shalt thou remember as an ugly dream.”

  And now at first to Psyche did it seem

  Her heart was softening to her, and the thought

  Swelled her full heart to sobbing, and it brought

  Into her yearning eyes half-happy tears:

  But on her way cold thoughts and dreadful fears

  Rose in her heart, for who indeed could teach

  A living soul that dread abode to reach

  And yet return? and then once more it seemed

  The hope of mercy was but lightly dreamed,

  And she remembered that triumphant smile,

  And needs must think, “This is the final wile,

  Alas! what trouble must a goddess take

  So weak a thing as this poor heart to break.

  “See now this tower! from off its top will I

  Go quick to Proserpine — ah, good to die!

  Rather than hear those shameful words again,

  And bear that unimaginable pain

  She has been treasuring up against this day!

  O Love, farewell, thou seest all hope is dead,

  Thou seest what torments on my wretched head

  Thy bitter mother doth not cease to heap;

  Farewell, O Love, for thee and life I wee

  Alas, my foolish heart! alas, my sin!

  Alas, for all the love I could not win!”

  Now was this tower both old enough and grey,

  Built by some king forgotten many a day,

  And no man dwelt there, now that bitter war

  From that bright land had long been driven afar;

  There now she entered, trembling and afraid;

  But ‘neath her doubtful steps the dust long laid

  In utter rest, rose up into the air,

  And wavered in the wind that down the stair

  Rushed to the door; then she drew back a pace,

  Moved by the coldness of the lonely place

  That for so long had seen no ray of sun.

  Then shuddering did she hear these words begun,

  Like a wind’s moaning voice, “Have thou no fear

  The hollow words of one long slain to hear!

  Thou livest, and thy hope is not yet dead,

  And if thou heedest me, thou well may’st tread

  The road to hell, and yet return again.

  “For thou must go o’er many a hill and plain

  Until to Sparta thou art come at last,

  And when the ancient city thou hast passed

  A mountain shalt thou reach, that men now call

  Great Tænarus, that riseth like a wall

  ‘Twixt plain and upland, therein shalt thou find

  The wide mouth of a cavern huge and blind,

  Wherein there cometh never any sun,

  Whose dreadful darkness all things living shun;

  This shun thou not, but yet take care to have

  Three honey-cakes thy soul alive to save,

  And in thy mouth a piece of money set,

  Then through the dark go boldly, and forget

  The stories thou hast heard of death and hell,

  And heed my words, and then shall all be well.

  “For when thou hast passed through that cavern blind,

  A place of dim grey meadows shalt thou find,

  Wherethrough to inmost hell a path doth lead,

  Which follow thou, with diligence and heed;

  For as thou goest there, thou soon shalt see

  Two men like peasants loading painfully

  A fallen ass; these unto thee will call

  To help them, but give thou no heed at all,

 

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