Yet thou, forsooth, art in my temple here,
Touching my scythes, assuming my degree,
And daring to have thoughts that are not fear!"

But Psyche clung to her feet, and as they moved Rained tears along their track, tear dropped on tear. And drew the dust on in her trailing locks,

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And still, with passionate prayer, the charge disproved; Now, by thy right hand's gathering from the shocks Of golden corn, and by thy gladsome rites

Of harvest, and thy consecrated sights

Shut safe and mute in chests, and by the course

Of thy slave-dragons, and the driving force
Of ploughs along Sicilian glebes profound,

By all those Nuptial torches that departed

With thy lost daughter, -- and by those that shone
Back with her, when she came again glad-hearted,
And by all other mysteries which are done

In silence at Eleusis, I beseech thee,

O Ceres, take some pity and abstain

From giving to my soul extremer pain,

Who am the wretched Psyche ! Let me teach thee
A little mercy, and have thy leave to spend

A few days only in thy garnered corn,

Until that wrathful goddess, at the end

Shall feel her hate grow mild, the longer borne,-
Or till, alas! - this faintness at my breast
Pass from me, and my spirit apprehend

From life-long woe a breath-time hour of rest!
But Ceres answered, "I am moved indeed,
By prayers so moist with tears, and would defend
The poor beseecher from more utter need:
But where old oaths, anterior ties, commend,
I cannot fail to a sister, lie to a friend,
As Venus is to me. Depart with speed!"

PSYCHE AND THE EAGLE.

But sovran Jove's rapacious bird, the regal
High percher on the lightning, the great eagle
Drove down with rushing wings; and

By Cupid's help, he bore from Ida's brow
A cup-boy for his master, - he inclined

thinking how,

To yield, in just return, an influence kind;
The god being honored in his lady's woe.

And thus the bird wheeled downward from the track
Gods follow gods in, to the level low

Of that poor face of Psyche left in wrack.

-"Now fie, thou simple girl!" the bird began;
"For if thou think to steal and carry back
A drop of holiest stream that ever ran,

No simpler thought, methinks, were found in man.
What! know'st thou not these Stygian waters be
Most holy, even to Jove? that as, on earth,
Men swear by gods, and by the thunderer's worth,
Even so the heavenly gods do utter forth
Their oaths by Styx's flowing majesty?
And yet one little urnful, I agree

To grant thy need!" Whereat all hastily,
He takes it, fills it from the willing wave,

And bears it in his beak, incarnadined

By the last Titan-prey he screamed to have ;

And, striking calmly out against the wind,

Vast wings on each side, there, where Psyche stands, He drops the urn down in her lifted hands.

PSYCHE AND CERBERUS.

A mighty Dog with three colossal necks,
And heads in grand proportion; vast as fear,

With jaws that bark the thunder out that breaks
In most innocuous dread for ghosts anear,
Who are safe in death from sorrow: he reclines
Across the threshold of Queen Proserpine's
Dark-sweeping halls, and, there, for Pluto's spouse,
Doth guard the entrance of the empty house.
When Psyche threw the cake to him, once amain
He howled up wildly from his hunger-pain,
And was still, after.

PSYCHE AND PROSERPINE.

Then Psyche entered in to Proserpine

In the dark house, and straightway did decline
With meek denial the luxurious seat,

The liberal board for welcome strangers spread,
But sate down lowly at the dark queen's feet,
And told her tale and brake her oaten bread.
And when she had given the pyx in humble duty,
And told how Venus did entreat the queen
To fill it up with only one day's beauty

She used in Hades, star-bright and serene,

To beautify the Cyprian, who had been

All spoilt with grief in nursing her sick boy,
Then Proserpine, in malice and in joy,
Smiled in the shade, and took the pyx, and put
A secret in it; and so, filled and shut,
Gave it again to Psyche. Could she tell
It held no beauty, but a dream of hell?

PSYCHE AND VENUS.

And Psyche brought to Venus what was sent
By Pluto's spouse; the paler, that she went
So low to seek it, down the dark descent.

MERCURY CARRIES PSYCHE TO OLYMPUS.

Then Jove commanded the god Mercury
To float up Psyche from the earth. And she
Sprang at the first word, as the fountain springs,
And shot up bright and rustling through his wings.

THE MARRIAGE OF PSYCHE AND CUPID.

And Jove's right-hand approached the ambrosial bowl To Psyche's lips, that scarce dared yet to smile, – "Drink, O my daughter, and acquaint thy soul

With deathless uses, and be glad the while! No more shall Cupid leave thy lovely side;

Thy marriage-joy begins for never-ending." While yet he spake, the nuptial feast supplied, — The bridegroom on the festive couch was bending O'er Psyche in his bosom. The rural cup-boy came And poured Jove's nectar out with shining eyes, While Bacchus for the others did as much,

And Vulcan spread the meal; and all the Hours Made all things purple with a sprinkle of flowers, Or roses chiefly, not to say the touch

Of their sweet fingers; and the Graces glided Their balm around, and the Muses through the air Struck out clear voices, which were still divided

By that divinest song Apollo there

Intoned to his lute; while Aphrodite fair

Did float her beauty along the tune, and play
The notes right with her feet. And thus, the day
Through every perfect mood of joy was carried,

The Muses sang their chorus; Satyrus

Did blow his pipes; Pan touched his reed; and thus At last were Cupid and his Psyche married.

The myth of Cupid meets us at every turn in our reading, and is so familiar to young and old, both in pictures and poetry, that explanations are unnecessary. The poems that we have selected to illustrate the myth are of varied authorship and nationality. Those having the full flavor of antiquity are translations from the Greek poet, Anacreon, who wrote in the latter half of the fifth century B.C.

CUPID STUNG. [ANACREON.]

THOMAS BATESON'S MADRIGALS (1618).

Cupid in a bed of roses.

Sleeping, chanced to be stung
Of a bee that lay among

The flowers where he himself reposes;
And thus to his mother weeping

Told that he this wound did take
Of a little winged snake,

As he lay securely sleeping.
Cytherea smiling said,

That "if so great a sorrow spring
From a silly bee's weak sting

As should make thee thus dismayed,

What anguish feel they, think'st thou, and what pain,
Whom thine empoison'd arrows cause complain?"

CUPID STUNG.

TRANSLATED BY EDWIN ARNOLD.

Love once among the roses
Perceived a bee reposing,

And wondered what the beast was,
And touched it, so it stung him.