HOW THE ROSE BECAME RED. 
63 
and the weeping Goddess of Beauty, broke the level 
lines of the angry sunset, were assembled the stern 
Gods, and the weeping Graces, and the fluttering 
Loves that ever hover around the chariot of Yenus. 
With bleeding feet and drooping head,—wan, and 
cold, and speechless,—was the Goddess of Beauty 
borne into her golden chariot, and, with the dead 
body of Adonis, wafted by her silver and silent¬ 
winged doves to Mount Olympus. And then a deep 
darkness settled down upon the forest. Death was 
to her a new grief; she had seen the sun set from 
the steep of Olympus, but only to arise again on the 
morrow; the roses of Paphos withered, but there 
were ever other buds hanging beside them ready to 
open ; and although she kne w that all things change, 
yet Death had never before seized upon one whom 
she loved. In vain did Jove attempt to comfort 
her,—throughout the long hours which wrap earth 
in night, she wept without ceasing. The stars of 
heaven burnt brightly around her, but she regarded 
them not, for those which she loved to look into 
were dim and quenched for ever. In low tones the 
mighty Thunderer told her that all who were 
mortal must perish, that they must again mingle 
with the earth from which they first sprang, before 
they could share the immortality of the Gods ; but 
that when so many moons had waxed and waned, 
lie would, in pity for her sorrow, and for the sake 
