CHAPTER IX.
CEYX AND HALCYONE: OR, THE HALCYON BIRDS.
CEYX was king of Thessaly, where he reigned in peace, without
violence or wrong. He was son of Hesperus, the Day-star, and the
glow of his beauty reminded one of his father. Halcyone, the
daughter of AEolus, was his wife, and devotedly attached to him.
Now Ceyx was in deep affliction for the loss of his brother, and
direful prodigies following his brother's death made him feel as
if the gods were hostile to him. He thought best, therefore, to
make a voyage to Carlos in Ionia, to consult the oracle of
Apollo. But as soon as he disclosed his intention to his wife
Halcyone, a shudder ran through her frame, and her face grew
deadly pale. "What fault of mine, dearest husband, has turned
your affection from me? Where is that love of me that used to be
uppermost in your thoughts? Have you learned to feel easy in the
absence of Halcyone? Would you rather have me away;" She also
endeavoured to discourage him, by describing the violence of the
winds, which she had known familiarly when she lived at home in
her father's house,- AEolus being the god of the winds, and
having as much as he could do to restrain them. "They rush
together," said she, "with such fury that fire flashes from the
conflict. But if you must go," she added, "dear husband, let me
go with you, otherwise I shall suffer not only the real evils
which you must encounter, but those also which my fears
suggest."
These words weighed heavily on the mind of King Ceyx, and it
was no less his own wish than hers to take her with him, but he
could not bear to expose her to the dangers of the sea. He
answered. therefore, consoling her as well as he could, and
finished with these words: "I promise, by the rays of my father
the Day-star, that if fate permits I will return before the moon
shall have twice rounded her orb." When he had thus spoken, he
ordered the vessel to be drawn out of the shiphouse, and the
oars and sails to be put aboard When Halcyone saw these
preparations she shuddered, as if with a presentiment of evil.
With tears and sobs she said farewell, and then fell senseless
to the ground.
Ceyx would still have lingered, but now the young men grasped
their oars and pulled vigorously through the waves, with long
and measured strokes. Halcyone raised her streaming eyes, and
saw her husband standing on the deck, waving his hand to her.
She answered his signal till the vessel had receded so far that
she could no longer distinguish his form from the rest. When the
vessel itself could no more be seen, she strained her eyes to
catch the last glimmer of the sail, till that too disappeared.
Then, retiring to her chamber, she threw herself on her solitary
couch.
Meanwhile they glide out of the harbour, and the breeze plays
among the ropes. The seamen draw in their oars, and hoist their
sails. When half or less of their course was passed, as night
drew on, the sea began to whiten with swelling waves, and the
east wind to blow a gale. The master gave the word to take in
sail, but the storm forbade obedience, for such is the roar of
the winds and waves his orders are unheard. The men, of their
own accord, busy themselves to secure the oars, to strengthen
the ship, to reef the sail. While they thus do what to each one
seems best, the storm increases. The shouting of the men, the
rattling of the shrouds, and the dashing of the waves, mingle
with the roar of the thunder. The swelling sea seems lifted up
to the heavens, to scatter its foam among the clouds; then
sinking away to the bottom assumes the colour of the shoal-a
Stygian blackness.
The vessel shares all these changes. It seems like a wild
beast that rushes on the spears of the hunters. Rain falls in
torrents, as if the skies were coming down to unite with the
sea. When the lightning ceases for a moment, the night seems to
add its own darkness to that of the storm; then comes the flash,
rending the darkness asunder, and lighting up all with a glare.
Skill fails, courage sinks, and death seems to come on every
wave. The men are stupefied with terror. The thought of parents,
and kindred, and pledges left at home, comes over their minds.
Ceyx thinks of Halcyone. No name but hers is on his lips, and
while he yearns for her, he yet rejoices in her absence.
Presently the mast is shattered by a stroke of lightning, the
rudder broken, and the triumphant surge curling over looks down
upon the wreck, then falls, and crushes it to fragments. Some of
the seamen, stunned by the stroke, sink, and rise no more;
others cling to fragments of the wreck. Ceyx, with the hand that
used to grasp the sceptre, holds fast to a plank, calling for
help,- alas, in vain,-upon his father and his father-in-law. But
oftenest on his lips was the name of Halcyone. To her his
thoughts cling. He prays that the waves may bear his body to her
sight, and that it may receive burial at her hands. At length
the waters overwhelm him, and he sinks. The Day-star looked dim
that night. Since it could not leave the heavens, it shrouded
its face with clouds.
In the meanwhile Halcyone, ignorant of all these horrors,
counted the days till her husband's promised return. Now she
gets ready the garments which he shall put on, and now what she
shall wear when he arrives. To all the gods she offers frequent
incense, but more than all to Juno. For her husband, who was no
more, she prayed incessantly: that be might be safe; that he
might come home; that he might not, in his absence, see any one
that he would love better than her. But of all these prayers,
the last was the only one destined to be granted. The goddess,
at length, could not bear any longer to be pleaded with for one
already dead, and to have hands raised to her altars that ought
rather to be offering funeral rites. So, calling Iris, she said,
"Iris, my faithful messenger, go to the drowsy dwelling of
Somnus, and tell him to send a vision to Halcyone in the form of
Ceyx, to make known to her the event."
Iris puts on her robe of many colours, and tinging the sky
with her bow, seeks the palace of the King of Sleep. Near the
Cimmerian country, a mountain cave is the abode of the dull god
Somnus. Here Phoebus dares not come, either rising, at midday,
or setting. Clouds and shadows are exhaled from the ground, and
the light glimmers faintly. The bird of dawning, with crested
head, never there calls aloud to Aurora, nor watchful dog, nor
more sagacious goose disturbs the silence. No wild beast, nor
cattle, nor branch moved with the wind, nor sound of human
conversation, breaks the stillness. Silence reigns there; but
from the bottom of the rock the River Lethe flows, and by its
murmur invites to sleep. Poppies grow abundantly before the door
of the cave, and other herbs, from whose juices Night collects
slumbers, which she scatters over the darkened earth. There is
no gate to the mansion, to creak on its hinges, nor any
watchman; but in the midst a couch of black ebony, adorned with
black plumes and black curtains. There the god reclines, his
limbs relaxed with sleep. Around him lie dreams, resembling all
various forms, as many as the harvest bears stalks, or the
forest leaves, or the seashore sand grains.
As soon as the goddess entered and brushed away the dreams
that hovered around her, her brightness lit up all the cave. The
god, scarce opening his eyes, and ever and anon dropping his
beard upon his breast, at last shook himself free from himself,
leaning on his arm, inquired her errand,- for he knew who she
was. She answered, "Somnus, gentlest of the gods, tranquillizer
of minds and soother of care-worn hearts, Juno sends you her
commands that you despatch a dream to Halcyone, in the city of
Trachine, representing her lost husband and all the events of
the wreck."
Having delivered her message, Iris hasted away, for she could
not longer endure the stagnant air, and as she felt drowsiness
creeping over her, she made her escape, and returned by her
bow the way she came. Then Somnus called one of his numerous
sons,- Morpheus,- the most expert in counterfeiting forms, and
in imitating the walk, the countenance, and mode of speaking,
even the clothes and attitudes most characteristic of each. But
he only imitates men, leaving it to another to personate birds,
beasts, and serpents. Him they call Icelos; and Phantasos is a
third, who turns himself into rocks, waters, woods, and other
things without life. These wait upon kings and great personages
in their sleeping hours, while others move among the common
people. Somnus chose, from all the brothers, Morpheus, to
perform the command of Iris; then laid his head on his pillow
and yielded himself to grateful repose.
Morpheus flew, making no noise with his wings, and soon came
to the Haemonian city, where, laying aside his wings, he assumed
the form of Ceyx. Under that form, but pale like a dead man,
naked, he stood before the couch of the wretched wife. His beard
seemed soaked with water, and water trickled from his drowned
locks. Leaning over the bed, tears streaming from his eyes, he
said, "Do you recognize your Ceyx, unhappy wife, or has death
too much changed my visage? Behold me, know me, your husband's
shade, instead of himself. Your prayers, Halcyone, availed me
nothing. I am dead. No more deceive yourself with vain hopes of
my return. The stormy winds sunk my ship in the AEgean Sea,
waves filled my mouth while it called aloud on you. No uncertain
messenger tells you this, no vague rumour brings it to your
ears. I come in person, a shipwrecked man, to tell you my fate.
Arise! give me tears, give me lamentations, let me not go down
to Tartarus unwept." To these words Morpheus added the voice,
which seemed to be that of her husband; he seemed to pour forth
genuine tears; his hands had the gestures of Ceyx.
Halcyone, weeping, groaned, and stretched out her arms in her
sleep, striving to embrace his body, but grasping only the air.
"Stay!" she cried; "whither do you fly? let us go together." Her
own voice awakened her. Starting up, she gazed eagerly around,
to see if he was still present, for the servants, alarmed by her
cries, had brought a light. When she found him not, she smote
her breast and rent her garments. She cares not to unbind her
hair, but tears it wildly. Her nurse asks what is the cause of
her grief. "Halcyone is no more," she answers, "she perished
with her Ceyx. Utter not words of comfort, he is shipwrecked and
dead. I have seen him, I have recognized him. I stretched out my
hands to seize him and detain him. His shade vanished, but it
was the true shade of my husband. Not with the accustomed
features, not with the beauty that was his, but pale, naked, and
with his hair wet with sea water, he appeared to wretched me.
Here, in this very spot, the sad vision stood,"- and she looked
to find the mark of his footsteps. "This it was, this that my
presaging mind foreboded, when I implored him not to leave me,
to trust himself to the waves. Oh, how I wish, since thou
wouldst go, thou hadst taken me with thee! It would have been
far better. Then I should have had no remnant of life to spend
without thee, nor a separate death to die. If I could bear to
live and struggle to endure, I should be more cruel to myself
than the sea has been to me. But I will not struggle, I will not
be separated from thee, unhappy husband. This time, at least, I
will keep thee company. In death, if one tomb may not include
us, one epitaph shall; if I may not lay my ashes with thine, my
name, at least, shall not be separated." Her grief forbade more
words, and these were broken with tears and sobs.
It was now morning. She went to the seashore, and sought the
spot where she last saw him, on his departure. "While he
lingered here, and cast off his tacklings, he gave me his last
kiss." While she reviews every object, and strives to recall
every incident, looking out over the sea, she descries an
indistinct object floating in the water. At first she was in
doubt what it was, but by degrees the waves bore it nearer, and
it was plainly the body of a man. Though unknowing of whom, yet,
as it was of some shipwrecked one, she was deeply moved, and
gave it her tears, saying, "Alas! unhappy one, and unhappy, if
such there be, thy wife!" Borne by the waves, it came nearer. As
she more and more nearly views it, she trembles more and more.
Now, now it approaches the shore. Now marks that she recognizes
appear. it is her husband! Stretching out her trembling hands
towards it, she exclaims, "O dearest husband, is it thus you
return to me?"
There was built out from the shore a mole, constructed to
break the assaults of the sea, and stem its violent ingress. She
leaped upon this barrier and (it was wonderful she could do so)
she flew, and striking the air with wings produced on the
instant, skimmed along the surface of the water, an unhappy
bird. As she flew, her throat poured forth sounds full of grief,
and like the voice of one lamenting. When she touched the mute
and bloodless body, she enfolded its beloved limbs with her
new-formed wings, and tried to give kisses with her horny beak.
Whether Ceyx felt it, or whether it was only the action of the
waves, those who looked on doubted, but the body seemed to raise
its head. But indeed he did feel it, and by the pitying gods
both of them were changed into birds. They mate and have their
young ones. For seven placid days, in winter time, Halcyone
broods over her nest, which floats upon the sea. Then the way is
safe to seamen. AEolus guards the winds and keeps them from
disturbing the deep. The sea is given up, for the time, to his
grandchildren.
The following lines from Byron's "Bride of Abydos" might seem
borrowed from the concluding part of this description, if it
were not stated that the author derived the suggestion from
observing the motion of a floating corpse:
"As shaken on his restless pillow,
His head heaves with the heaving billow;
That hand, whose motion is not life,
Yet feebly seems to menace strife,
Flung by the tossing tide on high,
Then levelled with the wave..."
Milton, in his "Hymn on the Nativity," thus alludes to the
fable of the Halcyon:
"But peaceful was the night
Wherein the Prince of light
His reign of peace upon the earth began;
The winds with wonder whist
Smoothly the waters kist
Whispering new joys to the mild ocean,
Who now hath quite forgot to rave
While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave."
Keats also, in "Endymion," says:
"O magic sleep! O comfortable bird
That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind
Till it is hushed and smooth."
