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THE STORY OF HYACINTH AND APOLLO
THE CHILD, THE SUN, AND THE WIND
- IT chanced upon a summer’s day,
- Within a deep wood far away,
- There wandered forth a little child
- Midst flowers and birds and breezes wild.
- Now running here, now resting there,
- As bright, as light, as free as air,
- The happy little Hyacinth strayed,
- From flower to flower, by sun and shade.
- A wind called Zephyr saw him pass
- With skipping feet across the grass,
- And ran before and clung behind,
- And strove his tripping feet to bind.
- Because the Zephyr loved him so,
- He would not let that fair child go,
- But kept beseeching, “Stay, and be
- A little playfellow to me!”
- Still Hyacinth had naught to say,
- Nor would he with the Zephyr stay,
- But skipped aside and left the wind
- Another playfellow to find.
- And next the sun up in the air
- Caught sight of Hyacinth’s shining hair,
- As Hyacinth ran the tall trees under,
- And King Apollo paused in wonder.
- “Stop! Hyacinth,” cried King Apollo,
- “You run too quick for me to follow;
- One little minute wait for me,
- And I your playfellow will be.”
- Because Apollo from the blue
- Had fallen in love with Hyacinth too,
- So down he came with smiling face
- And stayed upon a mossy place.
- There sun and child in merry play
- Sported full many an hour away,
- “Who can throw farthest, you or I?
- This ring I’ll cast, then you shall try.”
- But Zephyr, creeping round about,
- Spied their pleasant pastime out,
- Which made him angry feel and sore,
- And he grew angrier more and more,
- Until a cruel purpose grew,
- And he determined what to do;
- His wicked will at once consenting
- Unto the crime of his inventing.
- For as the King, in act to fling,
- Raised high in air the iron ring,
- Zephyr ran and took his stand
- Just underneath Apollo’s hand.
- Thence blew the ring back swift and straight,
- Steady and strong with all its weight,
- So that it struck on Hyacinth’s head,
- And lo! the pretty child fell dead!
- Then all about the leafy wood
- There streamed out Hyacinth’s purple blood,
- Which wrote in letters sad and plain,
- “Woe! Woe! for Hyacinth is slain!”
- Back to the sky Apollo flew,
- And far away the Zephyr blew;
- But on the ground where Hyacinth died
- Sweet flowers grew and multiplied.
- Hyacinths that, with happy faces,
- Still beautify earth’s lonely places,
- Loved by the sun and breezes wild,
- In memory of the winsome child.
E.K.
