Ceyx and Alcyone (Ovid)

King Ceyx, disturbed by his loved brother’s fate and prodigies which happened since that time, prepared to venture to the Clarian god, that he might there consult the oracle, so sanctified to consolation of distress: for then the way to Delphi was unsafe because of Phorbas and his Phlegyans. Before he went he told his faithful queen, his dear Halcyone. She felt at once terror creep through the marrow of her bones, pallor of boxwood overspread her face, and her two cheeks were wet with gushing tears. Three times she tried to speak while tears and sobs delayed her voice, until at last she said:—”What fault of mine, my dearest, has so changed your usual thoughts? Where is that care for me that always has stood first? Can you leave me for this long journey with no anxious fear—Halcyone, forsaken in these halls? Will this long journey be a pleasant change because far from you I should be more dear? Perhaps you think you will go there by land, and I shall only grieve, and shall not fear the sea affrights me with its tragic face. Just lately I observed some broken planks upon our seashore, and I’ve read and read the names of seamen on their empty tombs! Oh, let no false assurance fill your mind because your father-in-law is Aeolus. Who in a dungeon shuts the stormful winds and smoothes at will the troubled ocean waves soon as the winds get freedom from his power, they take entire possession of the deep, and nothing is forbidden their attack; and all the rights of every land and sea are disregarded by them. They insult even the clouds of heaven and their wild concussions urge the lightnings to strike fires. The more I know of them, for I knew them in my childhood and I often saw them from my father’s home, the more I fear. But, O dear husband! if this new resolve can not be altered by my prayers and fears, and if you are determined, take me, too: some comfort may be gained, if in the storms we may be tossed together. I shall fear only the ills that really come to us, together we can certainly endure discomforts till we gain that distant land.”

[444] Such words and tears of the daughter of Aeolus gave Ceyx, famed son of the Morning Star, much thought and sorrow; for the flame of love burned in his heart as strongly as in hers. Reluctant to give up the voyage, even more to make Halcyone his partner on the dangerous sea, he answered her complaints in many ways to pacify her breast, but could not comfort her until at last he said, “This separation from your love will be most sorrowful; and so I swear to you, as witnessed by the sacred fire of my Star-father, if the fates permit my safe return, I will come back to you before the moon has rounded twice her orb.” These promises gave hope of his return. Without delay he ordered a ship should be drawn forth from the dock, launched in the sea, and properly supplied against the needs of travel.—Seeing this, Halcyone, as if aware of future woe, shuddered, wept, and embraced him, and in extreme woe said with a sad voice, “Ah—Farewell!” and then, her nerveless body sank down to the ground. While Ceyx longed for some pretext to delay, the youthful oarsmen, chosen for their strength, in double rows began to draw the oars back towards their hardy breasts, cutting the waves with equal strokes. She raised her weeping eyes and saw her husband on the high-curved stern. He by his waving hand made signs to her, and she returned his signals. Then the ship moved farther from the shore until her eyes could not distinguish his loved countenance. Still, while she could, she followed with her gaze the fading hull; and, when that too was lost far in the distance, she remained and gazed at the white topsails, waving from the mast. But, when she could no longer see the sails, with anxious heart she sought her lonely couch and laid herself upon it. Couch and room renewed her sorrow and reminded her how much of life was absent on the sea.

[474] The ship had left the harbor, and the breeze shook the taut rigging. Now the captain bade the idle oars be drawn up to the sides. They ran the pointed sailyards up the mast and with spread canvas caught the coming breeze. Perhaps the ship had not sailed half her course, on every side the land was out of sight in fact at a great distance, when, towards dark the sea grew white with its increasing waves, while boisterous east winds blew with violence.—prompt in his duty, the captain warns his crew, “Lower the top sails—quick—furl all the sails tight to the yards!”—He ordered, but the storm bore all his words away, his voice could not be heard above the roaring of the sea. But of their own accord some sailors rushed to draw the oars in, others to secure the sides from danger, and some strove to pull the sails down from the wind. One pumps the waves up from the hold, and pours the rushing sea again into the sea; another takes the yards off.—While such things are being done without command or order, the wild storm increases, and on every side fierce winds wage a destructive warfare, which stirs up the furious waters to their utmost power. Even the captain, terrified, confessed he did not know the status of the ship, and could not order nor forbid the men—so great the storm, so far beyond his skill. Then he gave up control, while frightened men shouted above the rattled cordage shocks, and heavy waves were dashed against huge waves, and ail the sky reverberated with terrific thunders. The deep sea upturned tremendous billows, which appeared to reach so near the heaven they touched the heavy clouds with foam of their tossed waters.—At one time, while the great billows churned up yellow sand from off the bottom, the wild rolling waves were of that color. At another time they were more black than water of the Styx. Sometimes they levelled, white with lashing foam.

[592] The ship was tossed about in the wild storm: aloft as from a mountain peak it seemed to look down on the valley and the depth of Acheron; and, when sunk down in a trough of waves engulfing, it appeared to look up at the zenith from infernal seas. Often the waves fell on the sides with crash as terrible as when a flying stone or iron ram shatters a citadel. As lions, mustering up their strength anew, might hurl their breasts against the spears and outstretched arms of huntsmen, so the waves, upon the rising of the winds, rushed forth against the battered sides of the tossed ship and rose much higher than the slanting masts. The ship-bolts lost their grip, the loosened planks, despoiled of covering wax, gave open seams, through which streamed water of the fatal waves.—vast sheets of rain pour from dissolving clouds, so suddenly, it seemed that all the heavens were flung into the deep, while swelling seas ascended to the emptied fields of heaven! The sails are drenched with rain, the salt sea waves are mingled with the waters of the skies. The firmament is black without a star, and night is doubly dark with its own gloom and blackness of the storm. Quick lightning makes the black skies glitter, and the waves are fired with flames of thunder-bolts. Now floods leap up into the very middle of the ship. Just as a soldier, more courageous than the rest of his brave fellows, after he has often charged against the embattled walls of a defended city, gains at length the place which he has fought for; all inflamed with his desire of glory, scales the wall and stands alone among a thousand foes; so, when destructive waves have beat against the ship’s high sides, the tenth wave with known power, rushes more furious than the nine before, nor ceases to attack the failing ship, until dashed high above the captured walls it surges in the hold. Part of the sea is still attempting to get in the ship, and part is in it. All are panic stricken, like men within a doomed and shaken town; who see some foes attack the walls without, and others hold possession of the walls within the city. Every art has failed, their courage sinks. With every coming wave another death seems rushing in upon them. One sailor yields in tears; another falls down, stupefied; another calls those blest whom funeral rites await; another prays, addressing trusted gods, lifting his hands up to that heaven unseen, as vainly he implores some aid divine, and one in fright recalls his brothers and his parent, while another names his children and his home: each frightened sailor thinks of all he left.

[544] King Ceyx thinks only of Halcyone, no other name is on his lips but hers: and though he longs for her, yet he is glad that she is safe at home. Ah, how he tried to look back to the shore of his loved land, to turn his last gaze towards his wife and home. But he has lost direction.—The tossed sea is raging in a hurricane so vast, and all the sky is hidden by the gloom of thickened storm-clouds, doubled in pitch-black. The mast is shattered by the violence of drenching tempests, and the useless helm is broken. One undaunted giant wave stands over wreck and spoil, and looks down like a conqueror upon the other waves: then falls as heavily as if some god should hurl Mount Athos or Mount Pindus, torn from rock foundations, into that wide sea: so, with down-rushing weight and violence it struck and plunged the ship to the lowest deeps. And as the ship sank, many of the crew sank overwhelmed in deep surrounding waves, never to rise from suffocating death: but some in desperation, clung for life to broken timbers and escaped that fate. King Ceyx clung to a fragment of the wreck with that majestic hand which often before had proudly swayed the sceptre. And in vain, alas, he called upon his father’s name, alas, he begged his father-in-law’s support. But, while he swam, his lips most frequently pronounced that dearest name, “Halcyone!” He longs to have his body carried by waves to her dear gaze and have at last, entombment by the hands of his loved friends. Swimming, he called Halcyone—far off, as often as the billows would allow his lips to open, and among the waves his darling’s name was murmured, till at last a night-black arch of water swept above the highest waves and buried him beneath engulfing billows. Lucifer was dim past recognition when the dawn appeared and, since he never could depart from heaven, soon hid his grieving countenance in clouds.

[573] Meanwhile, Halcyone, all unaware of his sad wreck, counts off the passing nights and hastens to prepare for him his clothes that he may wear as soon as he returns to her; and she is choosing what to wear herself, and vainly promises his safe return—all this indeed, while she in hallowed prayer is giving frankincense to please the gods: and first of loving adorations, she paid at the shrine of Juno. There she prayed for Ceyx—after he had suffered death, that he might journey safely and return and might love her above all other women, this one last prayer alone was granted to her but Juno could not long accept as hers these supplications on behalf of one then dead; and that she might persuade Halcyone to turn her death-polluted hands away from hallowed altars, Juno said in haste, “O, Iris, best of all my messengers, go quickly to the dreadful court of Sleep, and in my name command him to despatch a dream in the shape of Ceyx, who is dead, and tell Halcyone the woeful truth.” So she commanded.—Iris instantly assumed a garment of a thousand tints; and as she marked the high skies with her arch, went swiftly thence as ordered, to the place where Sleep was then concealed beneath a rock.

[708] Near the Cimmerian Land there is a cave, with a long entrance, in a hallowed mountain, the home of slothful Sleep. To that dark cave the Sun, when rising or in middle skies, or setting, never can approach with light. There dense fogs, mingled with the dark, exhale darkness from the black soil—and all that place is shadowed in a deep mysterious gloom. No wakeful bird with visage crested high calls forth the morning’s beauty in clear notes; nor do the watchful dogs, more watchful geese, nor wild beasts, cattle, nor the waving trees, make sound or whisper; and the human voice is never heard there—silent Rest is there. But, from the bottom of a rock beneath, Lethean waters of a stream ooze forth, sounds of a rivulet, which trickle with soft murmuring amid the pebbles and invite soft sleep. Before the cavern doors most fertile poppies and a wealth of herbs bloom in abundance, from the juice of which the humid night-hours gather sleep and spread it over darkened Earth. No door is in that cavern-home and not a hinge’s noise nor guarding porter’s voice disturbs the calm. But in the middle is a resting-couch, raised high on night-black ebony and soft with feathered cushions, all jet black, concealed by a rich coverlet as dark as night, on which the god of sleep, dissolved in sloth lies with unmoving limbs. Around him there in all directions, unsubstantial dreams recline in imitation of all shapes—as many as the uncounted ears of corn at harvest—as the myriad leaves of trees—or tiny sand grains spread upon the shore.

[616] As soon as Iris entered that dread gloom, she pushed aside the visions in her way with her fair glowing hands; and instantly, that sacred cavern of the god of Sleep was all illuminated with the glow and splendor of her garment.—Out of himself the god with difficulty lifted up his lanquid eyes. From this small sign of life relapsing many times to languid sloth, while nodding, with his chin he struck his breast again and again. At last he roused himself from gloom and slumber; and, while raised upon his elbow, he enquired of Iris why she came to him.—He knew her by her name. She answered him, “O, Sleep, divine repose of all things! Gentlest of the deities! Peace to the troubled mind, from which you drive the cares of life, restorer of men’s strength when wearied with the toils of day, command a vision that shall seem the actual form of royal Ceyx to visit Trachin famed for Hercules and tell Halcyone his death by shipwreck. It is Juno’s wish.” Iris departed after this was said. For she no longer could endure the effect of slumber-vapor; and as soon as she knew sleep was creeping over her tired limbs she flew from there—and she departed by the rainbow, over which she came before.

[633] Out of the multitude—his thousand sons—the god of sleep raised Morpheus by his power. Most skillful of his sons, who had the art of imitating any human shape; and dexterously could imitate in men the gait and countenance, and every mode of speaking. He could simulate the dress and customary words of any man he chose to represent—but he could not assume the form of anything but man. Such was his art. Another of Sleep’s sons could imitate all kinds of animals; such as a wild beast or a flying bird, or even a serpent with its twisted shape; and that son, by the gods above was called Icelos—but the inhabitants of earth called him Phobetor—and a third son, named Phantasos, cleverly could change himself into the forms of earth that have no life; into a statue, water, or a tree. It was the habit of these three to show themselves at night to kings and generals; and other sons would frequently appear among the people of the common class. All such the aged god of Sleep passed by. Selecting only Morpheus from among the many brothers to accomplish this, and execute what Iris had desired. And after all that work, he dropped his head, and sank again in languid drowsiness, shrinking to sloth within his lofty couch.

[650] Morpheus at once flew through the night of darkness, on his wings that make no sound, and in brief space of intervening time, arrived at the Haemonian city walls; and there he laid aside his wings, and took the face and form of Ceyx. In that form as one deprived of life, devoid of clothes, wan and ghastly, he stood beside the bed of the sad wife. The hero’s beard seemed dripping, sea water streamed down from his drenching hair. Then leaning on the bed, while dropping tears were running down his cheeks, he said these words: “Most wretched wife, can you still recognize your own loved Ceyx, or have my looks changed: so much with death you can not?—Look at me, and you will be assured I am your own: but here instead of your dear husband, you will find only his ghost. Your faithful prayers did not avail, Halcyone, and I have perished. Give up all deluding hopes of my return. The stormy Southwind caught my ship while sailing the Aegean sea; and there, tossed by the mighty wind, my ship was dashed to pieces. While I vainly called upon your name, the angry waters closed above my drowning head and it is no uncertain messenger that tells you this and nothing from vague rumors has been told. But it is I myself, come from the wreck, now telling you my fate. Come then, arise shed tears, and put on mourning; do not send me unlamented, down to Tartarus.” And Morpheus added to these words a voice which she would certainly believe was her beloved husband’s; and he seemed to be shedding fond human tears; and even his hands were moved in gestures that Ceyx often used. Halcyone shed tears and groaned aloud, and, as she moved her arms and caught at his dear body, she embraced the vacant air she cried out loudly, “Stay, oh stay with me! Why do you hurry from me? We will go together!” Agitated by her own excited voice; and by what seemed to be her own dear husband, she awoke from sleep. And first looked all about her to persuade herself that he whom she had lately seen must yet be with her, for she had aroused the servants who in haste brought lights desired.

[680] When she could find him nowhere, in despair she struck her face and tore her garment from her breast and beat her breast with mourning hands. She did not wait to loosen her long hair; but tore it with her hands and to her nurse, who asked the cause of her wild grief, she cried: “Alas, Halcyone is no more! no more! with her own Ceyx she is dead! is dead! Away with words of comfort, he is lost by shipwreck! I have seen him, and I knew him surely—as a ghost he came to me; and when desirous to detain him, I stretched forth my arms to him, his ghost left me—it vanished from me; but it surely was the ghost of my dead husband. If you ask description of it, I must truly say he did not have his well known features—he was not so cheerful as he was in life! Alas, I saw him pale and naked, with his hair still dripping—his ghost from the waves stood on this very spot:” and while she moaned she sought his footprints on the floor. “Alas, this was my fear, and this is what my mind shuddered to think of, when I begged that you would not desert me for the wind’s control. But how I wish, since you were sailing forth to perish, that you had but taken me with you. If I had gone with you, it would have been advantage to me, for I should have shared the whole course of my life with you and you would not have met a separate death. I linger here but I have met my death, I toss on waves, and drift upon the sea. My heart would be more cruel than the waves, if it should ask me to endure this life—if I should struggle to survive such grief. I will not strive nor leave you so forlorn, at least I’ll follow you to death. If not the urn at least the lettered stone shall keep us still together. If your bones are not united with my bones, ’tis sure our names must be united.”Overcome with grief, she could not say another word—but she continued wailing, and her groans were heaved up from her sorrow-stricken breast.

[710] At early dawn, she went from her abode down to the seashore, where most wretchedly, she stood upon the spot from which he sailed, and sadly said; “He lingered here while he was loosening the cables, and he kissed me on this seashore when he left me here.” And while she called to recollection all that she had seen when standing there, and while she looked far out on flowing waves from there, she noticed floating on the distant sea—what shall I say? At first even she could not be sure of what she saw. But presently although still distant—it was certainly a floating corpse. She could not see what man he might be, but because it seemed to her it surely was a shipwrecked body, she was moved as at an omen and began to weep; and, moaning as she stood there, said:—“Ah wretched one, whoever it may be, ah, wretched is the wife whom you have left!” As driven by the waves the body came still nearer to her, she was less and less the mistress of herself, the more she looked upon it; and, when it was close enough for her to see its features, she beheld her husband. “It is he,” she cried and then she tore her face, her hair, her royal robe and then, extending both her trembling hands towards Ceyx, “So dearest one! So do you come to me again?” She cried, “O luckless mate.”

[728] A mole, made by the craft of man, adjoins the sea and breaks the shoreward rush of waves. To this she leaped—it seemed impossible—and then, while beating the light air with wings that instant formed upon her, she flew on, a mourning bird, and skimmed above the waves. And while she lightly flew across the sea her clacking mouth with its long slender bill, full of complaining, uttered moaning sounds: but when she touched the still and pallied form, embracing his dear limbs with her new wings, she gave cold kisses with her hardened bill. All those who saw it doubted whether Ceyx could feel her kisses; and it seemed to them the moving waves had raised his countenance. But he was truly conscious of her grief; and through the pity of the gods above, at last they both were changed to flying birds, together in their fate. Their love lived on, nor in these birds were marriage bonds dissolved, and they soon coupled and were parent birds. Each winter during seven full days of calm Halcyone broods on her floating nest—her nest that sails upon a halcyon sea: the passage of the deep is free from storms, throughout those seven full days; and Aeolus restraining harmful winds, within their cave, for his descendants’ sake gives halcyon seas.