Epitaphius Adonis

LAMENT FOR ADONIS

I cry "alas" for Adonis: fair Adonis is dead. "Fair Adonis is dead," the Loves cry in answer. No longer, Cypris, sleep in your purple robes; wake, wretched one, and clad in dark, beat your breast and tell all: "Fair Adonis is dead." I cry "alas" for Adonis: the Loves cry in answer.

Fair Adonis lies in the mountains, his thigh by the tusk, his white thigh struck by the white tusk, and he grieves Cypris as he breathes out faintly; the black blood drips down his snowy flesh, and beneath his brows his eyes grow dim, and the rose flees from his lip; and about him dies too the kiss that Cypris will never carry away again. To Cypris the kiss is dear even of one no longer living, but Adonis does not know that she kissed him as he died. I cry "alas" for Adonis: the Loves cry in answer.

A cruel, cruel wound has Adonis in his thigh; but a greater wound does Cytherea bear against her heart. About that boy his dear hounds howled, and the mountain Nymphs weep; and Aphrodite, loosing her tresses, wanders through the thickets mourning, unbraided, unsandaled; and the brambles tear her as she goes and gather her sacred blood; and shrilly wailing she is borne through the long glens, crying out for her Assyrian lord and calling her boy. And about him the black blood welled up around his navel, and his breast grew crimson from his thighs, and the nipples below that before were snowy turned purple for Adonis. "Alas for Cytherea," the Loves cry in answer.

She lost her fair lord, and with him she lost her sacred beauty. Fair was the form of Cypris while Adonis lived; but her beauty died with Adonis. "Alas for Cypris," all the mountains say, and the oaks say "Adonis." And the rivers weep for the griefs of Aphrodite, and the springs in the mountains shed tears for Adonis, and the flowers redden for sorrow; and Cythera, through all the slopes, through every glen, sings piteously, "Alas for Cytherea, fair Adonis is dead." And Echo cried back, "Fair Adonis is dead." Who would not have wept "alas" for the dread love of Cypris?

When she saw, when she marked the unstaunchable wound of Adonis, when she saw the crimson blood about his withering thigh, spreading wide her arms she wailed: "Stay, Adonis, ill-fated, stay, Adonis, that for the last time I may reach you, that I may embrace you and mingle lips with lips. Wake a little, Adonis, and kiss me one last time, kiss me as long as the kiss may live, until you breathe out into my mouth and into my heart your spirit flows, and I may drain your sweet love-draught, and drink down your love, and keep this kiss as Adonis himself, since you, ill-fated, flee me, flee far, Adonis, and go to Acheron, to the hateful and savage king, while I, wretched, live on and am a goddess and cannot follow you. Take, Persephone, my husband; for you yourself are far stronger than I, and all beauty flows down to you; but I am all-luckless, and I bear insatiable grief, and I weep for Adonis, who is dead to me, and I dread you. You die, thrice-longed-for, and my longing flits away like a dream, and Cytherea is widowed, and idle through the house are the Loves. With you too the girdle has perished. Why, rash one, do you hunt? Fair as you were, why did you so madly wrestle with a beast?" So Cypris lamented; the Loves cry in answer, "Alas for Cytherea, fair Adonis is dead."

The Paphian sheds as many tears as Adonis sheds blood; and all upon the ground become flowers. The blood begets the rose, and the tears the anemone. I cry "alas" for Adonis: fair Adonis is dead.

No longer in the thickets mourn your husband, Cypris. No fit couch is a lonely bed of leaves for Adonis; let Adonis, dead though he is, have your own bed, Cytherea. Even a corpse he is fair, a fair corpse, as one asleep. Lay him in the soft robes in which he used to slumber, in which by night beside you he wrought his sacred sleep upon the all-golden couch; it too longs for grim Adonis. And cast upon him garlands and flowers; let all things with him, since he is dead, let all the flowers also wither. And sprinkle him with Syrian unguents, sprinkle him with myrrh; let all perfumes perish: your perfume, Adonis, has perished. Delicate Adonis lies in purple raiment; and about him, weeping, the Loves groan aloud, having shorn their locks for Adonis; and one cast down arrows, another a bow, another a feather, another a quiver; and one loosed the sandal of Adonis, and others in a basin of gold carry water, and one washes his thighs, and another from behind with his wings cools Adonis. "Alas for Cytherea," the Loves cry in answer.

Hymenaeus quenched every torch upon the doorposts, and scattered the wedding garland; no longer "Hymen," no longer "Hymen" sings he his song, but he chants "alas" and Adonis still more than "Hymenaeus." The Graces weep for the son of Cinyras, saying to one another, "Fair Adonis is dead," and shrilly they cry "alas" far more than the paean. And the Fates call Adonis back, "Adonis," and chant their spell over him; but he does not hearken to them; not that he is unwilling, but the Maiden will not release him.

Cease your moaning, Cytherea, for today; refrain from beating your breast; you must weep again, again in another year shed your tears.