MARSYAS

Pallas Athena in an hour of ease From guarding states and succoring the wise, Pressed wistfully her lips against a flute Made by a Phrygian youth from resonant wood Cut near Sangarius. Upon a bank Made sweet by daisies and anemone She sat with godly wisdom exercised Blowing her breath against the stubborn tube That it might answer and vibrate in song. But while she played, down-looking, she beheld A serpent’s eyes, which by the water’s edge Lay coiled among the reeds, as if aware Of the divinity that filled the place. Then Athena saw her image in the cove, Where like a silver mirror, motionless Sangarius lay, and seeing her own face Thus suddenly, was stricken with surprise Of her fair forehead wrinkled, and her lips Pursed and distorted as she strove to curb The resisting instrument. So with a smile, A little laugh, which brought her beauty back, And gilded like a gradual burst of sun The water where the charmed serpent lay Lifting his head up to the living warmth, She threw the flute down, and Olympus way Vanished, from sight. Marsyas all the while Beneath an oak’s shade by the water’s edge Had drowsed voluptuously, and heard the notes, Dreaming some shepherd youth who watched his sheep Upon a near-by hill which to the swale Sloped in luxuriance, upon a reed His idle fancies loosened from the stops. But when Athena passed him, since he heard A roar of wings, as when a flock of quail Up-fly the hunter’s step, he woke to find The forest silent and the music gone. Then straying toward the rushes, he espied The flute upon the golden sands, and took it And tried his lips upon it, where the lips Of Pallas Athena left it fragrant, moist, And with a soul, which to the artless breath Of the rude Satyr gave melodious speech. So thinking that the music was his own And that the flute was but a worthless wood Save that it made his genius manifest, And swollen with conceit Marsyas sent A word of challenge to the Delphic god, Apollo of the cithara, for trial Of skill in music, saying who should prove The victor might do with the other what Pleased him to do, and let the Muses judge. But when Athena heard Apollo laugh, Where the nine Muses gossiped of the dare Which Marsyas uttered, for the lower meadows Of flowered Olympus whispered of the thing In jest and quip, and knowing that her soul Still echoed in the flute, but would anon Fade from it as the perfume from a girdle Tinct by the touch of Aphrodite’s hand, Spoke to Apollo: “Grant a little time Wherein the Satyr may improve his skill.” To which the Muses nodded ’mid their smiles. But yet Apollo gave assent, though teased By reason of their chatter and the thought Hid in Athena’s word that any respite Granted the Satyr could prosper his success. Meanwhile Marsyas waited for the day Appointed of Apollo. Near Sangarius And through the woodlands tireless with the flute: Sometimes in imitative harmony Mocking the sound of fluttering leaves, and now The musical winds that blow in early spring Around a peak of dancing asphodel Where the sea warms them, and at other times The little waves that patter on the sands Of old Sangarius rich in numerous flags. And once he strove with music’s alchemy To turn to sound the sunlight of the morn Which fills the senses as illuminate dew Quickens the ovule of the tiger-flower. Again he sang the sorrow of his youth When a wild nymph after one day of bliss Fled him while sleeping. And again he beat The rhythm lying at the root of life Which marks the whirling planets. And Apollo Hearing betimes a note of purest tone Fall like a star, betrayed his wonderment— Whereat the muses vexed him with their smiles And whisperings to each other. But Apollo Could sense the Satyr’s waning skill, which dulled With its employment, as Athena’s soul Died from the flute, although the Satyr knew not Each day of waiting doomed him: Then at last The day dawned for the trial of their skill, And Marsyas came bearing the hollow flute— For all had left it of Athena’s soul. Then on Sangarius’ wooded banks the muses To judge assembled, fair, majestical. With arms entwined some close together stood, Some half-reclined upon the flowery grass, But all bore in their eyes the light of mirth Suppressed, half-hidden. Then, for that Euterpe Was mistress of the flute, since it was deemed Fair to the Satyr that the contest be Judged by the flute, gave signal to begin. Whereat Apollo struck the cithara To test the strings, and all the wood was hushed, Awed by the magic of its harmony. But when Marsyas blew upon the flute A fear coursed through him as his wonder rose Whether Apollo had bewitched its soul To such discordance, or its utterance, Such as he knew it, when compared with the god’s Was so unmusical. Yet he dare not fail The contest, so they waged it to the end, While the sweet muses now grown pitiful No longer smiled, but turned their heads away In sorrow for Marsyas, for his shame And for the fate to follow. So at last With one accord the muses rose and looked With eyes significant upon Apollo, Who angered by the Satyr’s swollen pride And monstrous failure, had become a will Of resolute retribution. But the muses, Because they feel for those who trying lose, Even as a mother for her crippled son Whom the sound-footed distance in the race, Hastened away lest they behold the thing That came to pass. And flinging far the flute Marsyas shrieked and sank upon the earth. Whereat Apollo seized his wretched form And lifting him up, with strips of laurel bark Bound the poor Satyr to a rugged oak And flayed him alive, and took the Satyr’s skin And hung it in a cave, and turned his blood To water, whence the river Marsyas That from the cave flows onward to this day.