She drew the offerings from the midst aside, And piled the sheaves at every pillar's base; And sweeping therebetween a passage wide, Made clear of corn and chaff the temple space: As countrymen who bring their wheat to mart, Set out their show along the walls apart By their allotted stations, each in place;
Thus she, and felt no weariness,--such strength Hath duty to support our feeble frame,-- Till all was set in order, and at length Up to the threshold of the shrine she came: When lo! before her face with friendly smile, Tall as a pillar of the peristyle, The goddess stood reveal'd, and call'd her name.
'Unhappy Psyche,' said she, 'know'st thou not How Aphrodite to thy hurt is sworn? And thou, thy peril and her wrath forgot, Spendest thy thought my temple to adorn. Take better heed!'--And Psyche, at the voice Even of so little comfort, gan rejoice, And at her feet pour'd out this prayer forlorn.
'O Gracious giver of the golden grain, Hide me, I pray thee, from her wrath unkind: For who can pity as canst thou my pain, Who wert thyself a wanderer, vex'd in mind For loss of thy dear Corè once, whenas, Ravisht to hell by fierce Agesilas, Thou soughtest her on earth and coudst not find.
'How coud thy feet bear thee to western night, And where swart Libyans watch the sacred tree, And thrice to ford o'er Achelous bright, And all the streams of beauteous Sicily? And thrice to Enna cam'st thou, thrice, they tell, Satest athirst by Callichorus' well, Nor tookest of the spring to comfort thee.
'By that remember'd anguish of thine heart, Lady, have pity even on me, and show Where I may find my love; and take my part For peace, I pray, against my cruel foe: Or if thou canst not from her anger shield, Here let me lie among the sheaves conceal'd Such time till forth I may in safety go.'
Demeter answer'd, 'Nay, though thou constrain My favour with thy plea, my help must still Be hidden, else I work for thee in vain To thwart my mighty sister in her will. Thou must fly hence: Yet though I not oppose, Less will I aid her; and if now I close My temple doors to thee, take it not ill.'
Then Psyche's hope founder'd; as when a ship, The morrow of the gale can hardly ride The swollen seas, fetching a deeper dip At every wave, and through her gaping side And o'er her shattered bulwark ever drinks, Till plunging in the watery wild she sinks, To scoop her grave beneath the crushing tide: