THE STORY OF CUPID AND PSYCHE.

In the Greek land of old there was a King

Happy in battle, rich in everything;

Most rich in this, that he a daughter had

Whose beauty made the longing city glad.

She was so fair, that strangers from the sea

Just landed, in the temples thought that she

Was Venus visible to mortal eyes,

New come from Cyprus for a world's surprise.

She was so beautiful that had she stood

On windy Ida by the oaken wood,

And bared her limbs to that bold shepherd's gaze,

Troy might have stood till now with happy days;

And those three fairest, all have left the land

And left her with the apple in her hand.

And Psyche is her name in stories old,

As ever by our fathers we were told.

All this beheld Queen Venus from her throne,

And felt that she no longer was alone

In beauty, but, if only for a while,

This maiden matched her god-enticing smile;

Therefore, she wrought in such a wise, that she,

If honoured as a goddess, certainly

Was dreaded as a goddess none the less,

And midst her wealth, dwelt long in loneliness.

Two sisters had she, and men deemed them fair,

But as King's daughters might be anywhere,

And these to men of name and great estate

Were wedded, while at home must Psyche wait.

The sons of kings before her silver feet

Still bowed, and sighed for her; in measures sweet

The minstrels to the people sung her praise,

Yet must she live a virgin all her days.

So to Apollo's fane her father sent,

Seeking to know the dreadful Gods’ intent,

And therewith sent he goodly gifts of price

A silken veil, wrought with a paradise,

Three golden bowls, set round with many a gem,

Three silver robes, with gold in every hem,

And a fair ivory image of the god

That underfoot a golden serpent trod;

And when three lords with these were gone away,

Nor could return until the fortieth day,

Ill was the King at ease, and neither took

Joy in the chase, or in the pictured book

The skilled Athenian limner had just wrought,

Nor in the golden cloths from India brought.

At last the day came for those lords’ return,

And then‘ twixt hope and fear the King did burn,

As on his throne with great pomp he was set,

And by him Psyche, knowing not as yet

Why they had gone: thus waiting, at noontide

They in the palace heard a voice outside,

And soon the messengers came hurrying,

And with pale faces knelt before the King,

And rent their clothes, and each man on his head

Cast dust, the while a trembling courtier read

This scroll, wherein the fearful answer lay,

Whereat from every face joy passed away.