Book 47

47. Come to the forty-seventh book, where Perseus is, and the death of Icarius, and soft-robed Ariadne.

Now here and there through the city flew Rumor, the self-crying herald that vine-rich Dionysus had come to the land of Attica; and for sleepless Lyaeus fair-laboring Athens were stirred into the Bacchic dance. And the great revel roared; and the gathered citizens draped the streets with broidered garments by their many scattered hands; and for plant-increasing Bacchus Athens were wreathed of their own accord with the leaves of the vine; and the women, with mystic breasts, girded their cups of wine over their iron-bearing bosoms, and maidens danced, and crowned their heads, twining the Attic hair with the flower of ivy. And Ilissus rolled its living water about the city, glorifying Dionysus; and in rival dance the banks of Cephisus beat out the Euian song. And the orchard sprang up, and from the bosom of the earth, self-grown in the ripening of a sweet birth, the cluster reddened upon olive-bearing Marathon, and the oaks whispered, and as their leaves opened the Seasons of the meadow belched forth the two-colored rose, and the hills brought to birth the self-fulfilled lily. And to the Phrygian pipes the pipe of Athens sounded in answer, and the Acharnian reed sang out a twin music, pressed by hands; and from throats of one tongue the deep-roaring native Bacchant, singing in unison with the Mygdonian unwed girl, raised a two-throated harmony, leaning her arm upon a young Pactolian nymph, and held up the night-dancing flame with a double torch to first-born Zagreus and to late-born Dionysus; and remembering Itylus and the loom-toiling Philomela, the Attic nightingale of changeful throat cried out in answer, and the talking bird of Zephyr poured her song beneath the eaves, casting all memory of Tereus to the storm-winds. Nor was anyone in the city without a dance. But Bacchus, rejoicing, came to the house of Icarius, who was, beyond all other husbandmen, more skilled at planting strange trees. And the old vine-dresser danced with rustic feet when he beheld Dionysus come as a guest, and welcomed the lord of fair-planted vines with a humble table; and Erigone mixed it, drawing the milk of goats; but Bacchus stopped her, and to the kindly old man he gave wineskins teeming with toil-loosing draught, and holding in his right hand a fragrant cup of sweet wine he offered it to Icarius, and greeted him with friendly words:

"Receive, old man, this gift, which Athens does not yet know. Old man, I count you blessed; for the citizens will sing you, crying such a word, that Icarius found fame to surpass Celeus, and Erigone to surpass Metaneira. I have envy for Demeter of old, because she too, to another tiller of the soil, Deo gave the corn-blessed ear. Triptolemus found the ear of corn, and you the wine-dark cluster of harvest; gracious one, you alone vie with heavenly Ganymede, more blessed than Triptolemus before you; for the cares that gnaw the heart, ears of corn do not loose them, but the wine-bearing clusters are the healers of human grief."

Such a word he spoke, and to the hospitable old man he gave a delicate cup full of mind-rousing wine; and the old planting vine-dresser drank cup after cup, holding an insatiate frenzy for the well-dripping dew; and the girl, drawing a stream of wine instead of milk, held out the cup with her hand, until she made her father drunk. But when he found his fill of the cup-receiving table, weaving his slipping step, turned this way and that, with alternating feet the vine-dresser leaped up, striking up the Euian hymn of Zagreus for Dionysus. And to the rustic old man the plant-tending god gave clustering vine-branches, the Euius-loving gifts of the table; and the lord taught him, by some plant-increasing art, to break them, to dig the trenches, and to set the branches in the round pits. And to other husbandmen the old planting vine-dresser, bearing the gifts of Bromius and the vine-borne harvest, taught the wine-growing husbandry of Dionysus; and casting an unspeakable flood of wine into the shepherd's bowl, he gladdened the feasters with cup after cup, opening the fragrant flow of the wine-holding skins. And one of them, drinking the stream of sweet mind-rousing wine, soothed the father of Erigone with a friendly word:

"Tell me, old man, where on earth did you find the nectar of Olympus? You do not bring it from the yellow water of Cephisus, you do not carry the honey-sweet gifts of the Naiads; for the springs do not gush forth honey-flowing streams, nor is the stream of Ilissus reddened in its poured channel; this was no drink of the shoot-loving bee, bringing the sharpest fill to mortals; this is a strange thing, and sweeter than sweet honey you bring a sweeter water; this is no native drink the Attic olive brings to birth; sweeter than milk you have a drink, lasting forever, in the gathered drops of a honey-mixed potion. And if the rose-armed Seasons knew how to bring to mortals a drink from the calyxes of the plant-increasing gardens, then I would have called this the spring drink of Adonis or of Cytherea, the fragrant dew of roses. You bring a toil-loosing and a strange drink; for it has scattered my cares, that wandered upon the airy winds. Did not immortal Hebe give you a gift from the upper air? Did not your city-guarding Athena bring you this? Who has seized the bowl from heaven, from which Ganymede draws, mixing the cup for Zeus and the immortals? More blessed than guest-receiving Celeus, did not you yourself receive in your hall some gracious dweller come from heaven? I am persuaded that some other god revelled in your house, and gave this drink of your friendship, through the feast of your table, as a gift to Attica, as Deo gave the corn."

So he spoke, marvelling at the sweet drink; and from his lips, sweetly maddened, he raised the cry, pouring out a rustic song. And the husbandmen, drawing cup after cup, were all stirred into Bacchic frenzy by the mind-robbing wine; and their eyes wandered, and with the strong-wine cups their silvery cheeks grew purple, and the breasts of the tillers grew warm, and their heads were weighed down with drink, and the veins of their swelling heads surged; and as they gazed, the bosom of the field seemed to shake, and the oaks danced and the crags leaped; and full of the unaccustomed wine, with slipping steps, each man fell rolling of himself, on his back, to the ground. And the band of husbandmen, shaken by a murderous frenzy, ran upon wretched Icarius in raving madness, as though he had mixed the drugged guile of wine, one holding an iron ox-axe, another arming his hands with a mattock, another lifting the ear-cutting sickle, and another raising a vast stone, another was driven on, brandishing a crook in his hand, and they struck the old man; and one, seizing a goad close by, pierced the body of Icarius with the flesh-cutting point. And in his anguish the old planting vine-dresser fell to the ground, struck with their clubs, and stumbling against the table he struck the wine-bowl, and into the flood of dark wine he rolled half-dead; and as his head was weighed down, struck by the alternating blows of the husbandmen, the bloody dew reddened the wine of like color. And scarcely from his lips, neighbor now of Hades, he cried out a word:

"Wine of my Bromius, the rest of mortal cares, the sweet that to me alone is pitiless; for joy it gave to all men, but to Icarius it gave death; the sweet that is the enemy of Erigone; for our mournful girl, the sorrowless Dionysus has made full of sorrow."

Not yet did his speech cease; but death outran his voice. And the corpse lay there, far from the prudent girl, with eyes wide open. And on an unbedded couch upon the ground the murderers slept a sweet sleep upon the floor, heavy with wine, like corpses; and when they awoke, they groaned for the man they had killed unknowing; and high upon their shoulders lightly lifting the corpse they carried it up to the wooded ridge, their minds now sober; and in a well-watered stream they washed his wounds beside a mountain-poured spring; and the freshly-slain corpse, whom they had killed in mindless madness, the murderers buried with their man-slaying hands.

And the soul of Icarius, all like smoke, rushed to the house of Erigone; and equal to a mortal form was the light phantom of a shadowy dream-seen sight, all like a man newly slain, and the wretched thing wore the spotted tunic, the herald of an unrevealed murder, reddened with blood and squalid with dust, torn by the alternating blows of iron. And it stretched out its hands; and it showed the wounds of its freshly-slaughtered limbs for the neighboring girl to see. And the maiden cried aloud in her lament-loving dreams, when she saw so many wounds of the head, when the wretched one saw the freshly-flowing gore of his reddened throat; and the shadowy father spoke a word to the mourning girl:

"Awake, wretched one, and seek your father; awake, and hunt out my drunken murderers; I am your heavy-grieving father, whom for the sake of wine the dreadful husbandmen slew with iron. O child, I count you blessed; for of your slain father you did not hear the crash of the battered head, you did not see the gray hair reddened beneath the gore, you did not see the freshly-slain corpse twitching in the dust, you did not behold the father-killing clubs; but a god kept you far from your father, and guarded your sight, that you should not look on the death of your slaughtered father. Look on my tunics, purpled with blood; for yesterday the husbandmen, made drunk with alternating cups, gushing with the moisture of unaccustomed Bacchus, circled around me; and as I was slaughtered with iron I called the shepherds, and they did not hear my cry; only Echo of the after-voice heard my crash, mourning your father with answering laments. No longer lifting your crook in the midst of the wood do you come to the flowering pasture and to the meadows, feeding your herd with your rustic husband; no longer, handling your tree-tending mattock, do you bring channel-water to the fruitful garden; but insatiate of my honey-dripping harvest, weep for your father, me, fallen dead; and I shall see you living an orphan, untried in marriage."

So speaking, the winged vision of the dream ran past. And the girl, awaking, tore her rosy cheeks, and with mournful nails she scratched her firm breasts, and tore up by the roots the cluster of her long hair; and seeing the oxen still standing by the rock, the maiden, grieving, roared out with a wailing voice:

"Where is the corpse of Icarius? Speak, dear hills; tell me, you familiar bulls, the death of my father; of my slain father, who are the murderers? Where has my sweet father gone? Is it that, teaching a neighbor the young shoots of the fair-planted harvest, he wanders, sitting among the husbandmen, or with some herdsman of the trees he stayed, sharing the feast as a guest? Tell me, who mourn, and I will endure, until he comes. If my father still lives, the shoots of the garden I will water, living again together with my father; but if my father is dead and plants no more trees, I will look on a death equal to my dead father's."

So speaking, swift-kneed she ran up to the wooded ridge, seeking the tracks of her freshly-slaughtered father. But to her question the bold goatherd did not tell, nor by the thickets did the herd-tending oxherd, pitying the maiden, tell of the unmarked track of her unheralded father, nor did the old shepherd show the corpse of Icarius; but in vain she wandered; and hardly did the vine-dresser find her, and with mournful lips cried out an ill-tidings voice, and showed the nearby tomb of her newly-buried father. And the maiden, hearing it, raged with prudent madness; and tearing her locks she laid them by the dear tomb, a maiden unveiled, unsandalled, and with self-poured ever-flowing tears she kept her tunic bathed. And with speechless lips she sealed silence for a time; and a faithful dog, Erigone's companion, went with the mournful girl, lamenting with a whining cry, and grieved together with her as she grieved. And in her madness she ran up to a high-headed tree; and about the tree binding her twined neck with a strangling bond, the maiden died aloft in a self-slaying whirl, swinging both her feet in a dancer's plunge; and she died, and met a willing death; and about the girl the dog often shook itself, and cried out a mournful echo, shedding intelligent tears from its bestial eyes. Nor did the dog leave the maiden unguarded and forlorn, but stayed by the tree, chasing off any wild beast that came, leopard or lion; and to the wayfarers who passed with speechless gestures it pointed out the unwed girl entangled in strangling bonds high upon the tree. And they, pitying her, climbed up to the woodland tree on the tips of their feet, and from the fair-leaved boughs brought down the untamed maiden; and the nearby ground they hollowed out with earth-digging mattocks. And with them the dog labored too, with prudent heart, and in its grief deepened the ground with skilful foot, scoring the surface of the loose earth with its sharp claws. And the wayfarers gave funeral rites to the freshly-slain corpse; and bearing in his heart the weight of a shared grief, each ran back to his own work with hurrying foot; but the dog alone stayed by the neighboring tomb, out of love for Erigone, and perished by a willing death.

And father Zeus took pity; and in the starry circle he fixed Erigone beside the Lion's back; and the rustic maiden holds an ear of corn; for she would not lift the wine-dark cluster, the murderer of her father. And the old man Icarius, fellow-traveler with the neighboring girl, leading him to the star-wandering pole, he named Boötes, shining bright, touching the Arcadian Bear of the Wain; and he made the gleaming Dog, that rushes down upon the Hare, a fiery star, where about the circle of Olympus the sea-faring Argo sails in starry form. And these things Achaean legend has fashioned, mixing its familiar persuasion with falsehood; but the truth is this: Zeus the lord on high assigned the soul of corn-bearing Erigone to the heavenly star of the Maiden as her yoke-mate; and near the ethereal Dog he set a dog of like form, Sirius, whom they call the harvest-star; and the soul of Icarius, air-wandering, he joined to Boötes. And these things the son of Cronos gave to the wine-growing land of Attica, preparing one honor both for Pallas and for Dionysus.

And leaving the honey-flowing streams of Ilissus, Bacchus, delicate, revelled toward the vine-clad circle of Naxos; and about him bold Eros shook his wings, and as Lyaeus came, about to wed, Cytherea led the way before him. For just now, leaving sleeping upon the shore the maiden fled from her fatherland, pitiless Theseus sailed away, and committed his vows to the winds. And seeing Dionysus the sleeping, forsaken Ariadne, he mixed love with wonder; and to the dance-weaving Bacchants with marvelling tongue he spoke a guarded word:

"Bassarids, do not shake your rattles, let there be no noise of foot or pipe; let Cypris sleep; but she does not wear the girdle, the token of the Cyprus-born. I am persuaded that Grace is wedded to wily Sleep; but since dawn has shone and Eos appears nearby, wake the sleeping Pasithea. Who beside Naxos, who has wrapped Grace, the unclad? Surely it is not Hebe? But to whom did she leave the cup of the blessed? Surely beside the sea the gleaming Selene, driver of oxen, does not lie reclined? And why does she sleep apart from her familiar Endymion? Surely it is not silver-footed Thetis I behold upon the shore? But she has no naked rosy body. If it is right to speak, the Archer-goddess of Naxos rests from the toils of the hunt, having wiped off in the sea the sweat of beast-slaying; for toil always begets sweet sleep; but who in the thicket has seen Artemis with trailing tunic? Wait, Bacchants. Stand, Maron; do not dance here; cease your shrilling, dear Pan, lest you scatter the morning sleep of Athena; and to whom has Pallas left her spear? And who lifts the bronze helmet or the aegis of the Trito-born?"

Such things Bacchus said; and from the sand the wretched ill-fated girl, scattering her sleep, awoke, and saw not the fleet and not her deceiver husband; but with the halcyons the Cydonian bride lamented, haunting the shores, the deep-roaring dowry of the Loves; and she named her young man; and beside the sea she raged seeking the ship; and she was wroth with envious Sleep, and far more she blamed the mother of the Paphian, the sea; and she made supplication to Boreas, and named the wind by oath, named Oreithyia by oath, that back to the land of Naxos he might bring the youth, and she might see the sweet ship a second time; still more she asked of Aeolus the unsoftened; and to her prayer he yielded and consented, and sent a contrary wind to blow; but for the love-stricken girl ill-fated Boreas cared nothing; nay, the very breezes were soon jealous and angry with the maiden, and they carried the ship back to Attica. And at the maiden Eros himself marvelled, and on sorrowless Naxos he thought he beheld Aphrodite lamenting; for she was brighter even in her griefs, and grief adorned her sorrowing; and to mourning Ariadne laughter-loving Aphrodite gently yielded the judgment, smiling with desire, and the eyes of Persuasion yielded, and of the Graces, and the lovely tears of the girl outshone Eros. And late, in tears, she uttered such a voice:

"Sleep came sweet to me, while sweet Theseus departed; would that he had left me still in my delight; for in my sleep I saw Cecropia, and within the court of Theseus there was a delicate wedding-song, and Ariadne was sung, and a dance, and my own delighted hand adorned with spring leaves the flowering altar of the Loves; and I held the bridal wreath; and Theseus was near me in bridal garments, sacrificing to Aphrodite. Alas, what sweet dream I saw; but fleeing me he went away, leaving me still a maiden; be gracious, Persuasion; these the misty bride-decking darkness gave me, and envious light-bringing Eos snatched all these away; and waking I found not my beloved. Truly even the very images of answering dreams are jealous Loves, because the deceiving sight of marriage-fulfilling dreams, a lovely one, I saw, and lovely Theseus fled. To me even dear Sleep is hostile; tell me, rocks, tell me, the ill-loved one, who has stolen away the citizen of Athens? If Boreas should blow, I come to Oreithyia; but Oreithyia is angry with me, because she too bears the blood of Marathon, whence dear Theseus came. If Zephyr drives, show to the Zephyrian bride, to Iris, mother of Desire, Ariadne forced; if Notus, if bold Eurus, I come to the dawn-born, blaming the surging winds before their ill-loving mother. Give again, Sleep, your dear empty grace, sending, equal to that one, another lovely dream, that I may see the sweet deceiving bed of sleeping Cypris; only linger upon my eyes, that I may behold the breathless frenzy of Love's dreamed-of marriage. If to the Attic land, deceiving bridegroom Theseus, the snatching breezes have led your voyage from Naxos, tell me, who ask, and to Aeolus at once I go, blaming the envious and unholy winds; but if he set me, the exile from my fatherland, on forsaken Naxos, and unknown to you the pitiless sailor sailed away, he sinned against Theseus and against Justice, against Ariadne; may that sailor never again see a guiding wind, nor may gentle Melicertes ever gracious behold him riding with the unsteady storms; but let Notus blow when there is need of Boreas; let him see Eurus when he wants Zephyr; and when the spring winds blow for all seafarers, let him alone consort with a wintry sea. That sailor sinned, the lawless one; but I myself went astray, longing for the citizen of prudent Athens. Would that I had not loved him, ill-fated as I am; for as he was lovely to the Paphian, so wild was Theseus; he did not tell me this while he still held my thread; he did not tell me this beside our labyrinth. Would that the pitiless bull had killed him; cease, my voice, from folly, do not slay the sweet young man; alas for the Loves; Theseus sailed alone to fair-laboring Athens. I know whence he has left me; perhaps of one of the maidens he conceived a fellow-voyaging love, and dances in Marathon toward another's marriage, while I still travel to Naxos. Naxos was my bridal chamber, deceiving bridegroom Theseus; I have lost both father and bridegroom; alas for the Loves; I see not Minos, and I behold not Theseus; I have left behind my Cnossus, and I have not seen your Athens; I am bereft of father and fatherland; ah, most wretched, the dowry of my love is the water of the sea; to whom do I flee? What god will snatch me and bear me to Marathon, Ariadne contending in judgment for Cypris and Theseus? Who, taking me, would carry me through the swell? Would that I too might see another thread, the guide of our path; such a thread I too would wish to have, that I might escape the swell of the Aegean sea and cross to Marathon, that I might embrace you, even if you hate Ariadne, that I might embrace you, the oath-breaking husband. Receive me as the chamber-maid of your bed, if you will; and I will spread your couch . . . after Crete, Ariadne, like one taken captive; and for your most blessed bride I will endure, as a handmaid, to weave the loud-clattering loom, and to lift on my envious shoulders the unaccustomed pitcher, and to bring water for the meal to sweet Theseus; only let me see Theseus; for our mother too once served the husbandmen, and bowed her neck to a herdsman, and dallied with a grazing speechless bull, and bore a bull to a cow; while the herdsman played, she had no desire for the lyre, only to hear the bellowing. But I would not touch a crook, nor by the manger will I stand; but I will be close beside our queen, while Theseus speaks, and I will hear no bellowing; and I will sing the lovely wedding-song of your marriage, hiding my envy of your newly-yoked bride. Stop, as you sail by the Naxian shores, stop your ship for me; why, sailor, do you too grieve me? So then you too are of Marathon; if you come to your lovely land, where is the home of the Loves, receive me, wretched as I am, that I may see the city of Cecrops; but if you will leave me and, pitiless one, sail away, tell your Theseus that Ariadne mourns, blaming the unfulfilled deceiving oath of the Loves. I know whence Eros, heavy in wrath, made the promise of deceiving Theseus unfulfilled; for instead of Hera, whom they call the Yoker, he swore the marriage-oath of the virgin goddess, of unstained Athena; he swore the oath of Pallas; what have Pallas and Cytherea to do with each other?"

Such things as she mourned Bacchus delighted to hear; and he knew Cecropia and learned the name of Theseus and the deceiving voyage from Crete; and near the girl, with his inspired form, he gleamed; and the maiden to a stronger love for another, raving Eros, the wandering one, lashed with his goading girdle, that the Minoan girl, persuaded, he might yoke to his brother Dionysus. And consoling the mournful, ill-loved Ariadne, Bacchus spoke such a word with his heart-charming voice:

"Maiden, why do you grieve for the deceiving citizen of Athens? Let go the memory of Theseus; you have Dionysus for a husband, an immortal husband instead of a short-lived one; and if the mortal body of a young man your own age delights you, never could Theseus contend with Dionysus in valor and in beauty. But you will say: the dweller of the earth-dug labyrinth, the double-natured man yoked with a bull, he reddened with blood; you know your helper, your thread; for the citizen of Athens, the club-bearer, did not find a contest to fight, had not the rose-skinned woman defended him; I will not teach you the Paphian and Eros and the distaff of Ariadne. You will not say that Athens is greater than the upper air; Minos, your father, was not all like to all-ruling Zeus; Cnossus is not the equal of Olympus. Nor in vain did this voyage set out from my Naxos, but Desire kept you for a better marriage; blessed are you, because, leaving the inferior bed of Theseus, you will behold the couch of lovely Dionysus. What greater boast did you wish for? For you have both heaven for your home, and Cronos' son is your father-in-law. Cassiepeia will not be able to vie with you because of her daughter's Olympian glory; for the ethereal bonds of Andromeda among the stars Perseus gave; but for you I will make a starry crown, so that you may be called the gleaming consort of garland-loving Dionysus."

He spoke consoling; and the girl leaped with joy, casting all memory of Theseus into the sea, having received the heavenly wooer's promise of marriage. And Eros adorned the bridal chamber for Bacchus; and the wedding chorus rang out; and about the chamber all flowers bloomed; and with spring leaves the dancing women of Orchomenus circled Naxos; and the Hamadryad sang of the bridal chambers, and about the springs the unveiled, unsandalled Naiad Nymph approved Ariadne joined to the vine-clad god; and Ortygia cried aloud, and to the kinsman of city-guarding Phoebus, Lyaeus, striking up a bridegroom's hymn, she leaped into the dance, immovable though she was. And weaving a circling flower of purple roses, the fiery prophet Eros plaited a crown, of one hue with the stars, the herald of the heavenly Crown; and about the bride of Naxos leaped the bride-decking swarm of the Loves. And consorting in the bridal chamber with yoking marriage-songs, the Gold-fathered husband sowed a many-childed seed.

And rolling the long whirl of gray time, he remembered his own fair-laboring mother Rhea; and leaving Naxos, full of the Graces, blameless, he went through all the cities of Hellas; and near horse-pasturing Argos he came, even if Hera held Inachus. But they did not receive him, and the dance-weaving women and the Satyrs they drove off, and refused his thyrsi, lest Hera should ever harm the Pelasgian seat, the jealous one, heavy in wrath, bearing down upon Lyaeus; and the old Silenoi they held back. And grieving, Dionysus drove all the women of Inachus to frenzy; and the Achaean women cried aloud with bellowing; and against those who met them they rushed at the crossroads; and upon their own newborn babes the wretched ones sharpened their knives, of whom one drew her sword and the mother killed her son, another shattered her three-year-old child, and one hurled into the air a wandering boy still seeking his dear milk; and at the destruction of the newborn babes Inachus raged at the fate; and the mother killed her son, and there was no desire for the breasts that nurse the child, no memory of the necessary birth-pang; and at Asterion, where many first-fruits of riper youth, the flower of the young men's hairless heads were shorn, it received the boys themselves and no longer the locks of their hair. And one, seeing a servant of approaching Lyaeus, spoke such a word, a citizen of the Pelasgian land:

"This one with the cluster, the double race; worthy of Hera, Argos holds Perseus and has no need of Dionysus; I have another son of Zeus and do not want Bacchus. With much-leaping feet Dionysus treads the harvest; with high-traveling footsteps my offspring cleaves the air. Do not match the pruning-hook with the ivy; for greater than thyrsus-bearing Bacchus was sickle-bearing Perseus; if he slew the Indian army, I will call it an equal labor for Gorgon-slaying Perseus and for Indian-slaying Dionysus; but if beside the western clime of the much-sounding sea he fixed a stony Tyrrhenian ship in the deep, my Perseus turned a whole vast sea-monster to stone. And if your Dionysus by the desert sea saved sleeping Ariadne upon the shores, winged Perseus loosed the bonds of Andromeda, holding for a worthy dowry the stony beast of the sea; in no way for the Paphian's sake did Perseus ever save his bride, who longed for Theseus; but he won a chaste marriage. And as he did not burn Semele, so the fiery thunderbolts did not turn Danae to ash; but the father of Perseus, the Olympian rain of the Loves, golden, came to the marriage, and not a flaming husband. I do not at all admire this champion; for in his hand what bold martial spear does he hold? Hold off, Perseus; do not war with your Gorgon-slaying sickle against the womanish ivy; do not stain your hand against women's buskins; do not shake the helmet of Hades upon your temples against the vine-crown; but if you will, arm Andromeda against unarmored Dionysus; hold off from me, Dionysus, and leaving horse-pasturing Argos, go drive to frenzy again the women of seven-gated Thebes; kill a young Pentheus; what have Perseus and Dionysus to do together? Renounce swift-flowing Inachus; and let the slow river of Aonian Thebes receive you; I will not teach you heavy-kneed Asopus, still boiling with the thunderbolt."

Such a word he spoke, laughing in scorn at Dionysus. And Pelasgian Hera armed the Argive phalanx; and she likened herself to the prophet Melampus; and in anger she broke out a warlike voice to Gorgon-slaying Perseus:

"Offspring of a heavenly line, helmet-flashing Perseus, lift up your sickle, lest with some unwarlike thyrsus feeble women lay waste your Argos; do not fear one single snake, the girdle of his locks, since your blood-red beast-slaying hook mowed the harvest of so many serpents of Medusa; arm against the phalanx of the Bassarids; and of the bronze-roofed chamber be mindful, where through the bosom of Danae rainy Zeus poured the golden bride-stealing shower, lest Danae, after her bed, after the golden marriage, should bend a slavish knee to worthless Lyaeus; show that you bear the true blood of Cronos' son, show that you have a golden race, and proclaim the bed of the rich heavenly snow; and war with the Satyrs; and against arming Lyaeus stretch out the bloody eye of snake-haired Medusa, and after the bitter lord of sea-washed Seriphos I shall behold another new stony Polydectes. With you all-subduing Argive Hera arms herself, the stepmother of Bromius; and defending Mycenae, lift up your city-saving sickle, that I may see spear-won Ariadne following Perseus; kill the rank of the ox-horned Satyrs; and of the Bassarids with the Gorgon's eye change the mortal sight into a self-made image of like form; and with answering stony beauty adorn your streets, making varied statues in the markets of Inachus. Why do you fear Dionysus, whom the beds of Zeus did not beget? Tell me, what could he do to you? When will a footman on the ground ever overtake the winged one, riding aloft through the air?"

So she spoke, emboldening him; and Perseus flew into battle. And calling the citizens, the Pelasgian trumpet roared, of whom one lifted the spear of the warrior Lynceus, another that of older Phoroneus, another of Pelasgus, another raised the Abantian shield in his hand and the ashen spear of Proetus, and the quiver of Acrisius another man lifted, while another, bold, stood for battle holding the sword of Danaus, with which once, lifting it bare, he armed his daughters for man-slaying marriage, another wielded a great axe, which beside the altar Inachus, the inspired priest of city-holding Hera, once stood lifting, the cleaver of oxen's foreheads. And the battle-rousing army upon high-stepping horses ran behind warring Perseus; and one stood by hurling the war-cry from rough lips, a footman, and fitted his bow to the curving string, and lifted the hollow quiver upon his back; and the champion of the Argives was sickle-bearing Perseus, and he laced his feet in airy sandals, and lifted the head of unseen Medusa.

And Iobacchus armed his free-tressed women and the horned Satyrs; and he was stirred into Bacchic frenzy in the din, seeing the airy course of the winged champion; and in his hand he lifted the thyrsus, holding before his face the adamant, the stone turned to rock by the rain of Zeus, the defender against stony-eyed Medusa, that he might escape the hateful gleam of the unseen face. And seeing the phalanxes of the Bassarids and the sacred things of Lyaeus, laughing dreadfully, helmet-flashing Perseus spoke:

"Charming is the thyrsus-bearer, the green dart, who, coming against me, arms himself with worthless leaves, playing at war; if you have the blood of Zeus, reveal your race; if you have the golden Pactolian water of a river, I have gold for my father, and my father is rainy Zeus; look on the reddened foundations of the bridal chamber, bearing those relics of the wealth-pouring snow. But flee renowned Argos, since steadfast Hera holds these seats, the destroyer of your mother, lest she make you, who drove others mad, mad yourself, lest at last I see you sharpened again with madness."

So speaking he fought in the front; and he frightened the Bacchants, arming for war and the reaper of Medusa, Hera the all-subduing; and flashing down upon Bacchus the likeness of lightning, a god-sped leaping fire, she hurled against Bromius the light-bearing fiery spear. And laughing Dionysus answered with a raving voice:

"You have no point so flashing, an unarmed point; you cannot rout me, even if you got a fiery spear; nor does the lightning of Zeus harm me; for half-finished, an infant still, Bacchus the thunderbolts washed, pouring an unburning breath upon unharmed Dionysus. And you, proud one, sickle-bearing Perseus, cease; this is no battle of a lesser Gorgon, no single bride, heavy-bound Andromeda, the prize; but with Lyaeus you wage strife, who has the race of Zeus, to whom alone Rhea once offered the life-bringing breast, whom once with the fire of the bridal lightning the gentle flame brought to birth, whom the West, whom the Morning-star marvelled at, to whom the ranks of the Indians yielded, whom even Deriades and Orontes feared, who, holding the boundless likeness of the towering Giants, fell, to whom bold Alpos sank down, the son of Earth, holding a vast cloud-near body, to whom the Arab people bend the knee, while the Sicilian sailor still sings of the bastard sea-roving shape of the Tyrrhenians, whose form, human, I changed to another, and instead of men dancing fish leap in the sea. You heard the lament of seven-gated Thebes; I will not teach you dread-mad Pentheus and child-slaying Agave; you have no need of report or witness, that of Lyaeus your Argos made trial, while the Achaean women themselves still groan over their own birth-pangs. But, friend, make war, and soon, pierced by my clusters, you will praise Bacchus, because you will see the wings of your sandals yielding to my unbroken buskins; never will you scatter the battle of the Bassarids, never will I cease sending the wine-dark thyrsus, until I show your throat in Argos pierced by the ivy-spear, and your sickle conquered by leaves; nor will Zeus, my father, save you, nor your gray-eyed kinswoman, nor your Hera, much though she rages against war-steadfast Dionysus; but I will kill you, and proud Mycenae will see the reaper of Medusa reaped; or binding you fast in a chest with a greater bond I will hurl you afloat a second time on the familiar sea; and if you will, go up again at last to your Seriphos. But if you boast about your golden race, have for fellow-laborer worthless golden Aphrodite."

So speaking he fought in the front; and the Bacchants advanced, and the Satyrs warred. And above the head of Bromius, fluttering his light wings, aloft flew Perseus; but Iobacchus, raising his body, neighbor to the upper air, wingless, high-pathed, was lifted on a greater stride higher than flying Perseus, and to the seven-pathed air he brought his hand, and consorted with Olympus, and pressed the clouds; and Perseus quailed in fear, beholding the unreachable right hand of Dionysus touching the sun and reaching the moon. But leaving Dionysus he fought against the raving Bacchants; and shaking in his hand the death-bearing eye of Medusa he made stone the arming Ariadne. And Bacchus roared the more, seeing his bride turned to rock; and now he would have sacked Argos and overthrown Mycenae and mowed down the whole rank of the Danaans, and now he would have wounded the very Hera, fighting unknown and unwounded, in the false mortal form of the answering prophet, and now swift-sandalled Perseus would have perished beyond his fate, had not Hermes, appearing behind him with winged sandal, seized his golden tress and reined him back, and soothed him with a kindly, harm-averting word:

"True blood of Zeus, bastard child of jealous Hera, you know how I saved you from the Zeus-sent fires, and gave you, still a child, to the Nymphs, the daughters of the river Lamus, and again, taking you in my arms, brought you to the house of your child-rearing Ino; and you, showing gratitude to your rescuer, the son of Maia, kinsman, lull to rest this kindred battle; for both, Perseus and Dionysus, are the offspring of one father; do not blame the Argive army, do not blame the sickle of Perseus; for not willingly does he arm for war; but Hera armed him, and in the form of the prophet Melampus he fights openly; but you, hold off and let the strife alone, lest crafty Hera bear down on you again. But you will speak of your wife's death; in a glorious fate fighting she died, and dead Ariadne you ought rather to count blessed, that she found so great a slayer, born of a heavenly and not a mortal stock, the reaper of the sea-beast and of horse-bearing Medusa; the threads of the Fates obey none; for of heavenly stock died Electra, the consort of Zeus, and she herself departed, wedded to that Zeus, the sister of your Cadmus, Europa, after the Olympian bed, and your own mother died still bearing your seed in her womb; Semele did not pass the gates of Olympus before her death, but when she received her fate. And dying, your bride will come to the star-wandering heaven, and near our seven-pathed Pleiad, Maia, she will appear. What more dear did she wish than to shine upon the earth, dwelling in the upper air after Crete, Ariadne? But lay down your thyrsus, and leave Enyo to the winds, and the self-made image of earthly Ariadne fix where the heavenly image of Hera stands. Do not sack the city where the blood of your forebears is, but honor the land of your ox-horned Io, lulling your thyrsus to rest; and the Achaean women you will praise hereafter, when an altar of ox-faced Hera they will raise, and of your fair-chambered bride."

Such a word he spoke; and leaving horse-pasturing Argos, back to the pole he came, having blended for both, for Perseus and for Dionysus, a law of concord. Nor did Argive Hera remain there for long; but changing her false mortal form, taking her divine shape, she returned again to Olympus. And to the host of Inachus old Melampus spoke, the god-fearing blood of Lynceus, first-born of Pelasgus:

"Obey the prophet, and shake the wine-dark Bacchus; shake the bronze rattles and the Euian drums of Rhea, lest he lay waste the whole race of Inachus, lest after the infant children he destroy the young men, lest after the death of the children he kill the women; but make a god-pleasing sacrifice to Bacchus and to Zeus, and dance for Perseus and for Dionysus."

So speaking he persuaded them; and the people gathered, striking up for Bacchus a night-dancing song, and set up the rites; and in god-summoning dance the rattles rang out, and feet beat the ground, and torches blazed; and the gathered citizens smeared their cheeks with the mystic white gypsum; and the drums rang out, and as the bronze was struck a twin clattering din roared; and the altars reddened with the slaughter of bulls in ranks, one upon another, and countless sheep were killed; and the men at the blazing altar appeased Bacchus, and the women made him gracious; and the air-wandering melody, a female cry, sounded, answering the revel that ransoms life; and the Inachian maenads cast their mind-banishing madness to the winds.