The works of John Dryden :: :: University of Virginia Library

There needs no connection of this story with the former, for the beginning of this immediately follows the end of the last. The reader is only to take notice, that Orpheus, who relates both, was by birth a Thracian, and his country far distant from Cyprus, where Myrrha was born, and from Arabia, whither she fled. You will see the reason of this note, soon after the first lines of this fable.

Nor him alone produced the fruitful queen;
But Cinyras, who like his sire had been
A happy prince, had he not been a sire.
Daughters and fathers, from my song retire!
I sing of horror; and, could I prevail,
You should not hear, or not believe my tale.
Yet if the pleasure of my song be such,
That you will hear, and credit me too much,
Attentive listen to the last event,
And with the sin believe the punishment:
Since nature could behold so dire a crime,
I gratulate at least my native clime,

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That such a land, which such a monster bore,
So far is distant from our Thracian shore.
Let Araby extol her happy coast,
Her cinnamon and sweet amomum boast;
Her fragrant flowers, her trees with precious tears,
Her second harvests, and her double years;
How can the land be called so blessed that Myrrha bears?
Not all her odorous tears can cleanse her crime,
Her plant alone deforms the happy clime;
Cupid denies to have inflamed thy heart,
Disowns thy love, and vindicates his dart;
Some fury gave thee those infernal pains,
And shot her venomed vipers in thy veins.
To hate thy sire, had merited a curse;
But such an impious love deserved a worse.
The neighbouring monarchs, by thy beauty led,
Contend in crowds, ambitious of thy bed;
The world is at thy choice, except but one,
Except but him thou canst not choose alone.
She knew it too, the miserable maid,
Ere impious love her better thoughts betrayed,
And thus within her secret soul she said:—
“Ah, Myrrha! whither would thy wishes tend?
Ye Gods, ye sacred laws, my soul defend
From such a crime as all mankind detest,
And never lodged before in human breast!
But is it sin? Or makes my mind alone
The imagined sin? For nature makes it none.
What tyrant then these envious laws began,
Made not for any other beast but man!
The father-bull his daughter may bestride,
The horse may make his mother-mare a bride;
What piety forbids the lusty ram,
Or more salacious goat, to rut their dam?

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The hen is free to wed her chick she bore,
And make a husband, whom she hatched before.
All creatures else are of a happier kind,
Whom nor ill-natured laws from pleasure bind,
Nor thoughts of sin disturb their peace of mind.
But man a slave of his own making lives;
The fool denies himself what nature gives;
Too busy senates, with an over-care
To make us better than our kind can bear,
Have dashed a spice of envy in the laws,
And, straining up too high, have spoiled the cause.
Yet some wise nations break their cruel chains,
And own no laws, but those which love ordains;
Where happy daughters with their sires are joined,
And piety is doubly paid in kind.
O that I had been born in such a clime,
Not here, where 'tis the country makes the crime! . . .
But whither would my impious fancy stray?
Hence hopes, and ye forbidden thoughts, away!
His worth deserves to kindle my desires,
But with the love that daughters bear to sires.
Then had not Cinyras my father been,
What hindered Myrrha's hopes to be his queen?
But the perverseness of my fate is such,
That he's not mine, because he's mine too much:
Our kindred-blood debars a better tie;
He might be nearer, were he not so nigh.
Eyes and their objects never must unite,
Some distance is required to help the sight.
Fain would I travel to some foreign shore,
Never to see my native country more,
So might I to myself myself restore;

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So might my mind these impious thoughts remove,
And, ceasing to behold, might cease to love.
But stay I must, to feed my famished sight,
To talk, to kiss; and more, if more I might: . . .
More, impious maid! What more canst thou design?
To make a monstrous mixture in thy line,
And break all statutes human and divine?
Canst thou be called (to save thy wretched life)
Thy mother's rival, and thy father's wife?
Confound so many sacred names in one,
Thy brother's mother! sister to thy son!
And fear'st thou not to see the infernal bands,
Their heads with snakes, with torches armed their hands,
Full at thy face the avenging brands to bear,
And shake the serpents from their hissing hair?
But thou in time the increasing ill control,
Nor first debauch the body by the soul;
Secure the sacred quiet of thy mind,
And keep the sanctions nature has designed.
Suppose I should attempt, the attempt were vain;
No thoughts like mine his sinless soul profane,
Observant of the right; and O, that he
Could cure my madness, or be mad like me!”

Thus she; but Cinyras, who daily sees
A crowd of noble suitors at his knees,
Among so many, knew not whom to choose,
Irresolute to grant, or to refuse;
But, having told their names, inquired of her,
Who pleased her best, and whom she would prefer?
The blushing maid stood silent with surprise,
And on her father fixed her ardent eyes,

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And, looking, sighed; and, as she sighed, began
Round tears to shed, that scalded as they ran.
The tender sire, who saw her blush, and cry,
Ascribed it all to maiden modesty;
And dried the falling drops, and, yet more kind,
He stroked her cheeks, and holy kisses joined:
She felt a secret venom fire her blood,
And found more pleasure than a daughter should;
And, asked again, what lover of the crew
She liked the best? she answered, “One like you.”
Mistaking what she meant, her pious will
He praised, and bade her so continue still:
The word of “pious” heard, she blushed with shame
Of secret guilt, and could not bear the name.

'Twas now the mid of night, when slumbers close
Our eyes, and soothe our cares with soft repose;
But no repose could wretched Myrrha find,
Her body rolling, as she rolled her mind:
Mad with desire, she ruminates her sin,
And wishes all her wishes o'er again:
Now she despairs, and now resolves to try;
Would not, and would again, she knows not why;
Stops and returns, makes and retracts the vow;
Fain would begin, but understands not how:
As when a pine is hewn upon the plains,
And the last mortal stroke alone remains,
Labouring in pangs of death, and threatening all,
This way and that she nods, considering where to fall;
So Myrrha's mind, impelled on either side,
Takes every bent, but cannot long abide:
Irresolute on which she should rely,
At last, unfixed in all, is only fixed to die.
On that sad thought she rests; resolved on death,
She rises, and prepares to choke her breath:

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Then while about the beam her zone she ties,
“Dear Cinyras, farewell,” she softly cries;
“For thee I die, and only wish to be
Not hated, when thou know'st I die for thee:
Pardon the crime, in pity to the cause.”
This said, about her neck the noose she draws.
The nurse, who lay without, her faithful guard,
Though not the words, the murmurs overheard,
And sighs and hollow sounds; surprised with fright,
She starts, and leaves her bed, and springs a light;
Unlocks the door, and, entering out of breath,
The dying saw, and instruments of death.
She shrieks, she cuts the zone with trembling haste,
And in her arms her fainting charge embraced;
Next (for she now had leisure for her tears)
She weeping asked, in these her blooming years,
What unforeseen misfortune caused her care,
To loathe her life, and languish in despair?
The maid, with downcast eyes, and mute with grief,
For death unfinished, and ill-timed relief,
Stood sullen to her suit: the beldame pressed
The more to know, and bared her withered breast;
Adjured her, by the kindly food she drew
From those dry founts, her secret ill to shew.
Sad Myrrha sighed, and turned her eyes aside;
The nurse still urged, and would not be denied;
Nor only promised secrecy, but prayed
She might have leave to give her offered aid.
“Good will,” she said, “my want of strength supplies,
And diligence shall give what age denies.
If strong desires thy mind to fury move,
With charms and medicines I can cure thy love;

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If envious eyes their hurtful rays have cast,
More powerful verse shall free thee from the blast;
If heaven, offended, sends thee this disease,
Offended heaven with prayers we can appease.
What then remains, that can these cares procure?
Thy house is flourishing, thy fortune sure;
Thy careful mother yet in health survives,
And, to thy comfort, thy kind father lives.”

The virgin started at her father's name,
And sighed profoundly, conscious of the shame;
Nor yet the nurse her impious love divined,
But yet surmised, that love disturbed her mind.
Thus thinking, she pursued her point, and laid
And lull'd within her lap the mourning maid;
Then softly soothed her thus: “I guess your grief;
You love, my child; your love shall find relief.
My long experienced age shall be your guide;
Rely on that, and lay distrust aside;
No breath of air shall on the secret blow,
Nor shall (what most you fear) your father know.”
Struck once again, as with a thunder-clap,
The guilty virgin bounded from her lap,
And threw her body prostrate on the bed,
And, to conceal her blushes, hid her head:
There silent lay, and warned her with her hand
To go; but she received not the command;
Remaining still importunate to know.
Then Myrrha thus: “Or ask no more, or go;
I pr'ythee go, or, staying, spare my shame;
What thou wouldst hear, is impious even to name.”
At this, on high the beldame holds her hands,
And trembling, both with age and terror, stands;
Adjures, and, falling at her feet, intreats,
Soothes her with blandishments, and frights with threats,

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To tell the crime intended, or disclose
What part of it she knew, if she no further knows;
And last, if conscious to her counsel made,
Confirms anew the promise of her aid.

Now Myrrha raised her head; but soon, oppressed
With shame, reclined it on her nurse's breast;
Bathed it with tears, and strove to have confessed:
Twice she began, and stopped; again she tried;
The faltering tongue its office still denied;
At last her veil before her face she spread,
And drew a long preluding sigh, and said,
“O happy mother, in thy marriage bed!” . . .
Then groaned, and ceased.—The good old woman shook,
Stiff were her eyes, and ghastly was her look;
Her hoary hair upright with horror stood,
Made (to her grief) more knowing than she would;
Much she reproached, and many things she said,
To cure the madness of the unhappy maid:
In vain; for Myrrha stood convict of ill;
Her reason vanquished, but unchanged her will;
Perverse of mind, unable to reply,
She stood resolved or to possess, or die.
At length the fondness of a nurse prevailed
Against her better sense, and virtue failed:
“Enjoy, my child, since such is thy desire,
Thy love,” she said; she durst not say, “Thy sire.”
“Live, though unhappy, live on any terms;”
Then with a second oath her faith confirms.

The solemn feast of Ceres now was near,
When long white linen stoles the matrons wear;
Ranked in procession walk the pious train,
Offering first-fruits, and spikes of yellow grain;
For nine long nights the nuptial bed they shun,
And, sanctifying harvest, lie alone.

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Mixed with the crowd, the queen forsook her lord,
And Ceres' power with secret rites adored.
The royal couch now vacant for a time,
The crafty crone, officious in her crime,
The curst occasion took; the king she found
Easy with wine, and deep in pleasures drowned,
Prepared for love; the beldame blew the flame,
Confessed the passion, but concealed the name.
Her form she praised; the monarch asked her years,
And she replied, “The same thy Myrrha bears.”
Wine and commended beauty fired his thought;
Impatient, he commands her to be brought.
Pleased with her charge performed, she hies her home,
And gratulates the nymph, the task was overcome.
Myrrha was joyed the welcome news to hear;
But, clogged with guilt, the joy was insincere.
So various, so discordant is the mind,
That in our will, a different will we find.
Ill she presaged, and yet pursued her lust;
For guilty pleasures give a double gust.
'Twas depth of night; Arctophylax had driven
His lazy wain half round the northern heaven,
When Myrrha hastened to the crime desired.
The moon beheld her first, and first retired;
The stars, amazed, ran backward from the sight,
And, shrunk within their sockets, lost their light.
Icarius first withdraws his holy flame;
The Virgin sign, in heaven the second name,
Slides down the belt, and from her station flies,
And night with sable clouds involves the skies.

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Bold Myrrha still pursues her black intent;
She stumbled thrice, (an omen of the event;)
Thrice shrieked the funeral owl, yet on she went,
Secure of shame, because secure of sight;
Even bashful sins are impudent by night.
Linked hand in hand, the accomplice and the dame,
Their way exploring, to the chamber came;
The door was ope, they blindly grope their way,
Where dark in bed the expecting monarch lay:
Thus far her courage held, but here forsakes;
Her faint knees knock at every step she makes.
The nearer to her crime, the more within
She feels remorse, and horror of her sin;
Repents too late her criminal desire,
And wishes, that unknown she could retire.
Her, lingering thus, the nurse, who feared delay
The fatal secret might at length betray,
Pulled forward, to complete the work begun,
And said to Cinyras,—“Receive thy own!” . . .
Thus saying, she delivered kind to kind,
Accursed, and their devoted bodies joined.
The sire, unknowing of the crime, admits
His bowels, and profanes the hallowed sheets.
He found she trembled, but believed she strove,
With maiden modesty, against her love;
And sought, with flattering words, vain fancies to remove.
Perhaps he said, “My daughter, cease thy fears,”
Because the title suited with her years;
And, “Father,” she might whisper him again,
That names might not be wanting to the sin.
Full of her sire, she left the incestuous bed,
And carried in her womb the crime she bred.
Another, and another night she came;
For frequent sin had left no sense of shame;

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Till Cinyras desired to see her face,
Whose body he had held in close embrace,
And brought a taper; the revealer, light,
Exposed both crime, and criminal, to sight.
Grief, rage, amazement, could no speech afford,
But from the sheath he drew the avenging sword;
The guilty fled; the benefit of night,
That favoured first the sin, secured the flight.
Long wandering through the spacious fields, she bent
Her voyage to the Arabian continent;
Then passed the region which Panchæa joined,
And flying left the palmy plains behind.
Nine times the moon had mewed her horns; at length,
With travel weary, unsupplied with strength,
And with the burden of her womb oppressed,
Sabæan fields afford her needful rest;
There, loathing life, and yet of death afraid,
In anguish of her spirit, thus she prayed:—
“Ye powers, if any so propitious are
To accept my penitence, and hear my prayer,
Your judgments, I confess, are justly sent;
Great sins deserve as great a punishment:
Yet, since my life the living will profane,
And since my death the happy dead will stain,
A middle state your mercy may bestow,
Betwixt the realms above, and those below;
Some other form to wretched Myrrha give,
Nor let her wholly die, nor wholly live.”

The prayers of penitents are never vain;
At least, she did her last request obtain;

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For, while she spoke, the ground began to rise,
And gathered round her feet, her legs, and thighs;
Her toes in roots descend, and, spreading wide,
A firm foundation for the trunk provide;
Her solid bones convert to solid wood,
To pith her marrow, and to sap her blood;
Her arms are boughs, her fingers change their kind,
Her tender skin is hardened into rind.
And now the rising tree her womb invests,
Now, shooting upwards still, invades her breasts,
And shades the neck; and, weary with delay,
She sunk her head within, and met it half the way.
And though with outward shape she lost her sense,
With bitter tears she wept her last offence;
And still she weeps, nor sheds her tears in vain;
For still the precious drops her name retain.
Mean time the misbegotten infant grows,
And, ripe for birth, distends with deadly throes
The swelling rind, with unavailing strife,
To leave the wooden womb, and pushes into life.
The mother-tree, as if oppressed with pain,
Writhes here and there, to break the bark, in vain;
And, like a labouring woman, would have prayed,
But wants a voice to call Lucina's aid;
The bending bole sends out a hollow sound,
And trickling tears fall thicker on the ground.
The mild Lucina came uncalled, and stood
Beside the struggling boughs, and heard the groaning wood;
Then reached her midwife-hand, to speed the throes,
And spoke the powerful spells that babes to birth disclose.

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The bark divides, the living load to free,
And safe delivers the convulsive tree.
The ready nymphs receive the crying child,
And wash him in the tears the parent plant distilled.
They swathed him with their scarfs; beneath him spread
The ground with herbs; with roses raised his head.
The lovely babe was born with every grace;
Even envy must have praised so fair a face:
Such was his form, as painters, when they show
Their utmost art, on naked loves bestow;
And that their arms no difference might betray,
Give him a bow, or his from Cupid take away.
Time glides along, with undiscovered haste,
The future but a length behind the past,
So swift are years; the babe, whom just before
His grandsire got, and whom his sister bore;
The drop, the thing which late the tree inclosed,
And late the yawning bark to life exposed;
A babe, a boy, a beauteous youth appears;
And lovelier than himself at riper years.
Now to the queen of love he gave desires,
And, with her pains, revenged his mother's fires.