Tale of Archais

40 THE TALE OF ARCHAIS Our songs are awful, that the heavens shrink back Into their void of black. We worship at a sad insatiate shrine— O Cypris, none of thine ! Scarcely the song did cease when out of heaven A little cloud grew near, all thunder-riven, Scarred by the lightning, torn of ravaging wind ; Upon it sate the herald, who should find The home of Aphrodite, and should bring A message from high Zeus. The mighty king Had bidden him to speed. His wings drew nigh And hushed the last faint echoed melody With silver waving. As the messenger Of mighty Zeus descending unto her He stood before her, and called loud her name. Wrapped in a cloud of amber-scented flame Befitting his high office ; but his word, Too terrible for mortals, passed unheard To Cypris’ ear alone. She bowed her head And bade her nymphs prepare a royal bed Where he should rest awhile ; and, being gone, Cypris and Charicles were left alone. An aureole of purple round her brow