Unwitting that his daughter and his son
are Ocean deities, Agenor's son,—
depressed by sorrow and unnumbered woes,
calamities, and prodigies untold,—
the founder fled the city he had built,
as though fatalities that gathered round
that city grieved him deeper than the fate
of his own family; and thence, at last
arrived the confines of Illyria;
in exile with his wife.—
Weighted with woe,
bowed down with years, their minds recalled the time
when first disaster fell upon their House:—
relating their misfortunes, Cadmus spoke;
“Was that a sacred dragon that my spear
impaled, when on the way from Sidon's gates
I planted in the earth those dragon-teeth,
unthought-of seed? If haply 'tis the Gods,
(whose rage unerring, gives me to revenge)
I only pray that I may lengthen out,
as any serpent.” Even as he spoke,
he saw and felt himself increase in length.
His body coiled into a serpent's form;
bright scale's enveloped his indurate skin,
and azure macules in speckled pride,
enriched his glowing folds; and as he fell
supinely on his breast, his legs were joined,
and gradually tapered as a serpent's tail.—
Some time his arms remained, which stretching forth
while tears rolled down his human face, not changed
as yet, he said; “Hither, O hapless one!
Come hither my unhappy wife, while aught
is left of manhood; touch me, take my hand,
unchanged as yet—ah, soon this serpent-form
will cover me!”
So did he speak, nor thought
to make an end; but suddenly his tongue
became twin-forked. As often as he tried,
a hissing sound escaped; the only voice
that Nature left him. —
And his wife bewailed,
and smote her breast, “Ah, Cadmus, ah!
Most helpless one, put off that monster-shape!
Your feet, your shoulders and your hands are gone;
your manly form, your very colour gone; all—all
is changed!—Oh, why not, ye celestial Gods,
me likewise, to a serpent-shape transform!”—
So ended her complaint. Cadmus caressed
her gently with his tongue; and slid to her
dear bosom, just as if he knew his wife;
and he embraced her, and he touched her neck.
All their attendants, who had seen the change,
were filled with fear; but when as crested snakes
the twain appeared in brightly glistening mail,
their grief was lightened: and the pair, enwreathed
in twisting coils, departed from that place,
and sought a covert in the nearest grove.—
There, then, these gentle serpents never shun
mankind, nor wound, nor strike with poisoned fangs;
for they are always conscious of the past.
The fortune of their grandson, Bacchus, gave
great comfort to them—as a god adored
in conquered India; by Achaia praised
in stately temples. — But Acrisius
the son of Abas, of the Cadmean race,
remained to banish Bacchus from the walls
of Argos, and to lift up hostile arms
against that deity, who he denied
was born to Jove. He would not even grant
that Perseus from the loins of Jupiter
was got of Danae in the showering gold.
So mighty is the hidden power of truth,
Acrisius soon lamented that affront
to Bacchus, and that ever he refused
to own his grandson; for the one achieved
high heaven, and the other, (as he bore
the viperous monster-head) on sounding wings
hovered a conqueror in the fluent air,
over sands, Libyan, where the Gorgon-head
dropped clots of gore, that, quickening on the ground,
became unnumbered serpents; fitting cause
to curse with vipers that infested land.
Thence wafted by the never-constant winds
through boundless latitudes, now here now there,
as flits a vapour-cloud in dizzy flight,
down-looking from the lofty skies on earth,
removed far, so compassed he the world.
Three times did he behold the frozen Bears,
times thrice his gaze was on the Crab's bent arms.
Now shifting to the west, now to the east,
how often changed his course? Time came, when day
declining, he began to fear the night,
by which he stopped his flight far in the west—
the realm of Atlas—where he sought repose
till Lucifer might call Aurora's fires;
Aurora chariot of the Day.
There dwelt
huge Atlas, vaster than the race of man:
son of Iapetus, his lordly sway
extended over those extreme domains,
and over oceans that command their waves
to take the panting coursers of the Sun,
and bathe the wearied Chariot of the Day.
For him a thousand flocks, a thousand herds
overwandered pasture fields; and neighbour tribes
might none disturb that land. Aglint with gold
bright leaves adorn the trees,—boughs golden-wrought
bear apples of pure gold.
And Perseus spoke
to Atlas, “O my friend, if thou art moved
to hear the story of a noble race,
the author of my life is Jupiter;
if valiant deeds perhaps are thy delight
mine may deserve thy praise.—Behold of thee
kind treatment I implore—a place of rest.”
But Atlas, mindful of an oracle
since by Themis, the Parnassian, told,
recalled these words, “O Atlas! mark the day
a son of Jupiter shall come to spoil;
for when thy trees been stripped of golden fruit,
the glory shall be his.”
Fearful of this,
Atlas had built solid walls around
his orchard, and secured a dragon, huge,
that kept perpetual guard, and thence expelled
all strangers from his land. Wherefore he said,
“Begone! The glory of your deeds is all
pretense; even Jupiter, will fail your need.”
With that he added force and strove to drive
the hesitating Alien from his doors;
who pled reprieve or threatened with bold words.
Although he dared not rival Atlas' might,
Perseus made this reply; “For that my love
you hold in light esteem, let this be yours.”
He said no more, but turning his own face,
he showed upon his left Medusa's head,
abhorrent features.—Atlas, huge and vast,
becomes a mountain—His great beard and hair
are forests, and his shoulders and his hands
mountainous ridges, and his head the top
of a high peak;—his bones are changed to rocks.
Augmented on all sides, enormous height
attains his growth; for so ordained it, ye,
O mighty Gods!
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