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BULFINCH'S MYTHOLOGY
THE AGE OF FABLE
OR STORIES OF GODS AND HEROES
by Thomas Bulfinch
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CHAPTER VIII
PYGMALION
DRYOPE
VENUS AND ADONIS
APOLLO AND HYACINTHUS
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8 Àå
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µå·ò¿ÀÆä
ºñ³Ê½º¿Í ¾Æµµ´Ï½º
¾ÆÆú·Ð°ú ÈÖ¾ÆÅ²Å佺
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PYGMALION
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Ƕ±×¸»¸®¿Â
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PYGMALION saw so much to blame in women that he came at
last to abhor the sex, and resolved to live unmarried. He
was a sculptor, and had made with wonderful skill a statue
of ivory, so beautiful that no living woman came anywhere
near it. It was indeed the perfect semblance of a maiden
that seemed to be alive, and only prevented from moving by
modesty. His art was so perfect that it concealed itself
and its product looked like the workmanship of nature.
Pygmalion admired his own work, and at last fell in love
with the counterfeit creation. Oftentimes he laid his hand
upon it as if to assure himself whether it were living or
not, and could not even then believe that it was only
ivory. He caressed it, and gave it presents such as young
girls love, - bright shells and polished stones, little
birds and flowers of various hues, beads and amber. He put
raiment on its limbs, and jewels on its fingers, and a
necklace about its neck. To the ears he hung earrings, and
strings of pearls upon the breast. Her dress became her,
and she looked not less charming than when unattired. He
laid her on a couch spread with cloths of Tyrian
dye, and called her his wife, and put her head upon a
pillow of the softest feathers, as if she could enjoy
their softness.
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Ƕ±×¸»¸®¿ÂÀº ¿©ÀÚÀÇ °áÁ¡À» ³Ê¹«³ªµµ ¸¹ÀÌ º¸¾Ò±â ¶§¹®¿¡ ¸¶Ä§³» ¿©¼ºÀ» Çø¿ÀÇÏ°Ô µÇ¾î ÇÑÆò»ý µ¶½ÅÀ» Áö³»±â·Î °á½ÉÇÏ¿´´Ù. Ƕ±×¸»¸®¿ÂÀº Á¶°¢°¡¿´´Ù. ±×·¡¼ ÈǸ¢ÇÑ ¼Ø¾¾¸¦ ºÎ·Á »ó¾ÆÀÇ ÀÔ»ó(ÀÔ»ó)À» Á¶°¢Çϰí ÀÖ¾ú´Âµ¥, ±× ÀÛǰÀÇ ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿òÀº »ê ¿©ÀÚ µûÀ§´Â Á¢±Ùµµ ÇÒ ¼ö ¾ø´Â °ÍÀ̾ú´Ù. ±×°ÍÀÇ ¿ÏÀüÇÑ °Ñ¸ð¾çÀº ó³àÀÇ ¸ð½ÀÀ¸·Î, Á¤¸» »ì¾Æ ÀÖ´Â °Íó·³ º¸¿´´Ù. ±×ÀÇ ±â¼úÀÌ ¿Ïº®Ç߱⠶§¹®¿¡ ±× ÀÛǰÀº »ç¶÷ÀÇ ¼ÕÀ¸·Î µÈ °ÍÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó, ÀÚ¿¬ÀÌ ¸¸µç °Íó·³ º¸¿´´Ù. Ƕ±×¸»¸®¿ÂÀº ÀÚ±â ÀÚ½ÅÀÇ ÀÛǰ¿¡ °¨ÅºÇÑ ³ª¸ÓÁö ÀÚ¿¬ÀÇ Ã¢Á¶¹°°°ÀÌ º¸ÀÌ´Â ÀÌ ÀÛǰ°ú »ç¶û¿¡ ºüÁ³´Ù. ±×´Â ±×°ÍÀÌ »ì¾ÆÀÖ´Â °ÍÀÎÁö ¾Æ´ÑÁö¸¦ È®ÀÎÇÏ·Á´Â °Íó·³, Á¾Á¾ ¼ÕÀ» Á¶°¢ À§¿¡ ´ëº¸¾Ò´Ù. ¼ÕÀ» ´ëº¸±â´Â ÇßÁö¸¸, ±×°ÍÀÌ ´Ü¼øÇÑ »ó¾Æ¿¡ ºÒ°úÇÑ °ÍÀ̶ó°í´Â ¹Ï¾îÁöÁö ¾Ê¾Ò´Ù. ±×´Â ±×°ÍÀ» ²ø¾î¾È¾Ò´Ù. ±×¸®°í ¼Ò³à°¡ ÁÁ¾ÆÇÒ ¸¸ÇÑ °Íµé-¹Ý¦ÀÌ´Â Á¶°³²®´ë±â¶óµç°¡, ¹Ýµé¹ÝµéÇÑ µ¹, ¶Ç´Â Á¶±×¸¸ »õ µî, °®°¡Áö ²ÉÀ̶óµçÁö, ±¸½½°ú È£¹Ú µîÀ» ¼±¹°·Î ÁÖ¾ú´Ù.
±×´Â ÀÔ»ó¿¡ ¿ÊÀ» ÀÔÈ÷°í, ¼Õ°¡¶ô¿¡ º¸¼®À» ³¢¿ì°í, ¸ñ¿¡´Â ¸ñ°ÉÀ̸¦ °É¾î ÁÖ¾ú´Ù. ±Í¿£ ±Í°ÉÀ̸¦ ´Þ¾Æ ÁÖ°í, °¡½¿¿¡´Â ÁøÁÖ¸¦ ²é ²öÀ» ´Þ¾Æ ÁÖ¾ú´Ù. ¿ÊÀº Àß ¾î¿ï·ÈÀ¸¸ç, ¿ÊÀ» ÀÔÀº ¸Ê½Ã´Â ÀÔÁö ¾Ê¾ÒÀ» ¶§³ª ´Ù¸§¾øÀÌ ¸Å·ÂÀÌ ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. ±×´Â ±×³à¸¦ Æ¢·Î½º Áö¹æ¿¡¼ ³ª´Â ¿°·á·Î ¹°µéÀΠŬ·Îµå¸¦ ±ñ ¼ÒÆÄ À§¿¡ ´µ°í, ±×³à¸¦ ÀÚ±âÀÇ ¾Æ³»¶ó°í ºÒ·¶´Ù. ±×¸®°í´Â ±×³àÀÇ ¸Ó¸®¸¦ °¡Àå º¸µéº¸µéÇÑ ±êÅÐÀ» ³Ö¾î ¸¸µç º£°³ À§¿¡ ´µ¾ú´Ù. ±êÅÐÀÌ º¸µå¶ó¿òÀ» ±×³à°¡ ¸¶À½²¯ Áñ±æ ¼ö ÀÖ±â¶óµµ ÇÑ µíÀÌ.
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The festival of Venus (Aphrodite)
was at hand - a festival celebrated with great pomp at Cyprus.
Victims were offered, the altars smoked, and the odour of
incense filled the air. When Pygmalion had performed his
part in the solemnities, he stood before the altar and
timidly said, "Ye gods, who can do all things, give
me, I pray you, for my wife" -
he dared not say "my ivory virgin," but said
instead - "one like my ivory virgin." Venus (Aphrodite),
who was present at the festival, heard him and knew the
thought he would have uttered; and as an omen of her
favour, caused the flame on the altar to shoot up thrice
in a fiery point into the air. When he returned home, he
went to see his statue, and leaning over the couch, gave a
kiss to the mouth. It seemed to be warm.
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¾ÆÇÁ·ÎµðÅ×ÀÇ Á¦ÀüÀÌ °¡±î¿öÁ³´Ù. ÀÌ Á¦ÀüÀº ŰÇÁ·Î½º ¼¶¿¡¼ ±²ÀåÈ÷ È£È·Ó°Ô °ÅÇàµÇ¾ú´Ù. Èñ»ýÀÇ ¿¬±â°¡ ¿À¸£°í Çâ³»´Â °øÁß¿¡ °¡µæÇß´Ù. Ƕ±×¸»¸®¿ÂÀº ÀÌ Á¦Àü¿¡¼ ÀÚ±âÀÇ ÀÓ¹«¸¦ ³¡³»°í ³ µÚ¿¡, Á¦´Ü ¾Õ¿¡ ¼¼ ¸Ó¹µ°Å¸®¸ç ¸»Çß´Ù.
"½ÅµéÀÌ¿©, ¿øÄÁ´ë ³ª¿¡°Ô ³ªÀÇ »ó¾Æ ó³à¿Í °°Àº ¿©ÀÎ-±×´Â ³ªÀÇ »ó¾Æ ó³à¶ó´Â ¸»Àº °¨È÷ ÇÏÁö ¸øÇß´Ù-À» ¾Æ³»·Î Á¡ÁöÇÏ¿© ÁֽʽÿÀ."
Á¦Àü¿¡ Âü¼®Çß´ø ¾ÆÇÁ·ÎµðÅ×´Â ±×ÀÇ ¸»À» µè°í ±×°¡ ¸»ÇÏ·Á°í ÇÑ Âü¶æÀ» ¾Ë¾Ò´Ù. ±×¸®°í ±×ÀÇ ¼Ò¿øÀ» µé¾î Áְڴٴ ǥ½Ã·Î Á¦´Ü¿¡¼ Ÿ¿À¸£°í ÀÖ´Â ºÒ²ÉÀ» ¼¼ ¹ø °øÁß¿¡ ¼¼Â÷°Ô ¿À¸£°Ô Çß´Ù. ÁýÀ¸·Î µ¹¾Æ°¡ÀÚ Ç¶±×¸»¸®¿ÂÀº ±×ÀÇ Á¶°¢À» º¸·¯ °¬´Ù. ±×´Â ¼ÒÆÄ¿¡ ±â´ë¾î Á¶°¢À» »ìÆìº¸¾Ò´Ù. ±×·¯ÀÚ ±× ÀÔ¼ú¿¡ ¿Â±â°¡ µµ´Â °Í °°¾Ò´Ù.
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He pressed its
lips again, he laid his hand upon the limbs; the ivory
felt soft to his touch and yielded to his fingers like the
wax of Hymettus.
While he stands astonished and glad, though doubting, and
fears he may be mistaken, again and again with a lover's
ardour he touches the object of his hopes. It was indeed
alive! The veins when pressed yielded to the finger and
again resumed their roundness. Then at last the votary of
Venus found words to thank the goddess, and pressed his
lips upon lips as real as his own. The virgin felt the
kisses and blushed, and opening her timid eyes to the
light, fixed them at the same moment on her lover. Venus
blessed the nuptials she had formed, and from this union
Paphos was born, from whom the
city, sacred to Venus, received its name.
[see image: 56K - Venus
at Paphos - painting by J.A.D. Ingres]
[see images: - Pygmalion
and the Image - series of four paintings by Edward
Coley Burne-Jones]
[see image: 128K - Pygmalion
- painting by Boris Vallejo]
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±×´Â ´Ù½Ã Á¶°¢ÀÇ ÀÔ¼ú¿¡ Ű½ºÇÏ°í ±× ÆÈ´Ù¸®¿¡ ÀÚ±âÀÇ ¼ÕÀ» ´ë¾î º¸¾Ò´Ù. ±×·¯ÀÚ ±× »ó¾Æ´Â ±×ÀÇ ¼Õ¿¡ ºÎµå·´°Ô ´À²¸Á³´Ù. ¼Õ°¡¶ôÀ¸·Î ´·¯ º¸´Ï È÷¸ÞÅ佺»ê(»ê)ÀÇ ¹ÐÃÊó·³ µé¾î°¬´Ù. Ƕ±×¸»¸®¿ÂÀº ±â»µÇϸç ÇÑÆíÀ¸·Î´Â ¾î¶² °ú¿À°¡ ¾Æ´Ò±î ±Ù½ÉÇÏ¸é¼ »ç¶ûÇÏ´Â »ç¶÷ÀÇ ¿Á¤À» °¡Áö°í ¿©·¯ ¹ø ±×ÀÇ Èñ¸ÁÀÇ ´ë»ó¿¡ ¼ÕÀ» ´ò´Ù.
±×°ÍÀº Á¤¸» »ì¾Æ ÀÖ´Â °ÍÀ̾ú´Ù. Ç÷°üÀÌ ¼Õ°¡¶ôÀ¸·Î ´©¸£¸é µé¾î°¡³ª, ¼ÕÀ» ¶¼¸é ´Ù½Ã ¿ø»óÅ·Πµ¹¾Æ¿Ô´Ù. À̶§ ºñ·Î¼Ò ¾ÆÇÁ·ÎµðÅ×ÀÇ ¼þ¹èÀÚÀΠǶ±×¸»¸®¿ÂÀº ¿©½Å¿¡°Ô °¨»ç¸¦ µå·È´Ù. ±×¸®°í ÀÚ±âÀÇ ÀÔ¼úó·³ »ì¾Æ Àִ ó³àÀÇ ÀÔ¼ú¿¡ ÀÔ¼úÀ» °®´Ù ´ò´Ù. ó³à´Â Ű½º¸¦ ¹ÞÀÚ, ¾ó±¼À» ºÓÇû´Ù. ±×¸®°í ¼öÁÝÀº µíÇÑ ´«À» ¶ß°í ¾ÖÀÎÀ» ÀÀ½ÃÇß´Ù. ¾ÆÇÁ·ÎµðÅ×´Â ÀڱⰡ ¸Î¾îÁØ µÎ »ç¶÷ÀÇ °áÈ¥À» Ãàº¹ÇØ ÁÖ¾ú´Ù. ÀÌ °áÇÕÀ¸·ÎºÎÅÍ ¾Æµé ÆÄÆ÷½º°¡ ź»ýÇߴµ¥, ¾ÆÇÁ·ÎµðÅ׿¡°Ô ¹ÙÃÄÁø ÆÄÆ÷½º¶ó´Â ¸¶À»Àº ±×ÀÇ À̸§À» µý °ÍÀÌ´Ù.
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Schiller,
in his poem the "Ideals," applies this tale of
Pygmalion to the love of nature in a youthful heart. The
following translation is furnished by a friend:
"As once with prayers in passion flowing,
Pygmalion embraced the stone,
Till from the frozen marble glowing,
The light of feeling o'er him shone,
So did I clasp with young devotion.
Bright nature to a poet's heart;
Till breath and warmth and vital motion
Seemed through the statue form to dart.
"And then, in all my ardour sharing,
The silent form expression found;
Returned my kiss of youth daring,
And understood my heart's quick sound.
Then lived for me the bright creation,
The silver rill with song was rife;
The trees, the roses shared sensation,
An echo of my boundless life."
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¡¡
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DRYOPE
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µå·ò¿ÀÆä
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Dryope and Iole were sisters. The former was the wife of
Andraemon, beloved by her husband, and happy in the birth
of her first child. One day the sisters strolled to the
bank of a stream that sloped gradually down to the water's
edge, while the upland was overgrown with myrtles. |
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µå·ò¿ÀÆä¿Í À̿÷¹´Â Àڸſ´´Ù. µå·ò¿ÀÆä´Â ¾Èµå¶óÀ̸óÀÇ ¾Æ³»¿´´Ù. ±×³à´Â ù ¾ÆÀ̸¦ ³º°í ³²ÆíÀÇ »ç¶ûÀ» ¹ÞÀ¸¸ç ÇູÇÏ°Ô Áö³Â´Ù. ¾î´À ³¯, ÀڸŴ ½Ã³Á°¡ ¹æÆÄÁ¦¸¦ °Å´Ò°í ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. ÀÌ µÏÀº ¹°°¡±îÁö ¿Ï¸¸ÇÑ °æ»ç¸¦ ÀÌ·ç°í ÀÖ¾ú´Âµ¥, µÏ À§¿¡´Â µµ±Ý¾çÀÌ ¿ì°ÅÁ® ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. |
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They
were intending to gather flowers for forming garlands for
the altars of the nymphs, and Dryope carried her child at her bosom, precious burden, and nursed him as
she walked. Near the water grew a lotus plant, full of
purple flowers. Dryope gathered some and offered them to
the baby, and Iole was about to do the same, when she
perceived blood dropping from the places where her sister
had broken them off the stem. The plant was no other than
the nymph Lotis, who, running from a base pursuer [Priapus],
had been changed into this form. This they learned from
the country people when it was too late.
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±×µéÀº ´ÔÆäµéÀÇ Á¦´Ü¿¡ ¿Ã¸± ȰüÀ» ¸¸µé±â À§Çؼ ²ÉÀ» µû·¯ ³ª¿Â °ÍÀ̾ú´Ù. µå·ò¿ÀÆä´Â ±ÍÁßÇÑ Áü, Áï ¾ÆµéÀ» °¡½¿¿¡ ¾È°í °É¾î°¡¸ç Á¥À» ¸ÔÀ̰í ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. ¹°°¡¿¡´Â ÁøÈ«ºû ¿¬²ÉÀÌ ¸¸¹ßÇØ ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. µå·ò¿ÀÆä´Â ±× ²ÉÀ» ¸î °³ µû¼ ¾Ö±â¿¡°Ô ÁÖ¾ú´Ù. À̿÷¹µµ ±×·¸°Ô ÇÏ·Á°í ÇÏ¿´À» ¶§, ¾ð´Ï°¡ ¿¬²ÉÀ» µý °÷¿¡¼ Çǰ¡ È帣°í ÀÖ´Â °ÍÀÌ ´«¿¡ ¶ç¾ú´Ù. ÀÌ ¿¬²ÉÀº ´Ù¸§ÀÌ ¾Æ´Ï¶ó, º¸±â ½ÈÀº ÃßÀûÀÚ¸¦ ÇÇÇØ ´Þ¾Æ³ª´Ù°¡ º¯½ÅÇÑ ´ÔÆä ·ÎƼ½º¿´´Ù. ±×µéÀº ÀÌ »ç½ÇÀ» ³ªÁß¿¡ ¸¶À» »ç¶÷µéÇÑÅ× µé¾î ¾Ë¾Ò´Ù. ¶§´Â ÀÌ¹Ì ´Ê¾ú´Ù.
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Dryope, horror-struck when she perceived what she had
done, would gladly have hastened from the spot, but found
her feet rooted to the ground. She tried to pull them
away, but moved nothing but her upper limbs. The woodiness
crept upward and by degrees invested her body. In anguish
she attempted to tear her hair, but found her hands filled
with leaves. The infant felt his mother's bosom begin to
harden, and the milk cease to flow. Iole looked on at the
sad fate of her sister, and could render no assistance.
She embraced the growing trunk, as if she would hold back
the advancing wood, and would gladly have been enveloped
in the same bark. At this moment Andraemon, the husband of
Dryope, with her father, approached; and when they asked
for Dryope, Iole pointed them to the new-formed lotus.
They embraced the trunk of the yet warm tree, and showered
their kisses on its leaves.
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µå·ò¿ÀÆä´Â ÀڱⰡ ¹«½¼ ÁþÀ» Çß´ÂÁö¸¦ ±ú´ÝÀÚ °øÆ÷¸¦ ´À³¢°í ±× Àå¼Ò¿¡¼ ¼ÓÈ÷ ´Þ¾Æ³ª·Á°í Çß´Ù. ±×·¯³ª ¹ß¿¡ »Ñ¸®°¡ ³ µí, Áö¸é¿¡ ºÙ¾î¼ ²Ä¦ÇÏÁö ¾Ê¾Ò´Ù. ¹ßÀ» »©·Á°í ¾Ö¸¦ ½èÀ¸³ª À§Âʸ¸ Á¶±Ý ¿òÁ÷ÀÏ »Ó µå·ò¿ÀÆäÀÇ ¸öÀº Á¡Á¡ ³ª¹«·Î º¯ÇØ °¬´Ù. ±«·Î¿î ³ª¸ÓÁö ¸Ó¸®¸¦ Áã¾î¶âÀ¸·Á°í ÇßÀ¸³ª ¼Õ ¾È¿¡´Â ÀÙÀÌ °¡µæ µé¾î ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. ¾Ö±â´Â ¾î¸Ó´ÏÀÇ °¡½¿ÀÌ ±»¾îÁö¸ç, Á¥ÀÌ ³ª¿ÀÁö ¾Ê´Â °ÍÀ» ´À²¼´Ù. À̿÷¹´Â ¾ð´ÏÀÇ ½½Ç ¿î¸íÀ» ¹Ù¶óº¼ »Ó ¾î¶»°Ô ÇØ¾ß ÁÁÀ»Áö ¸ô¶ú´Ù. À̿÷¹´Â ¾ð´ÏÀÇ ¸öÀ» º¯¸ð½ÃŰ´Â ½Ä¹°ÀÇ ¼ºÀåÀ» Á¦ÁöÇÏ·Á´Â µí Áٱ⸦ ²¸¾È¾Ò´Ù. À̸¦ Á¦Áö ¸øÇÒ ¹Ù¿¡´Â Àڱ⵵ °°Àº ³ª¹«²®Áú¿¡ ½ÎÀ̱⸦ ¹Ù¶ú´Ù. À̶§ µå·ò¿ÀÆäÀÇ ³²ÆíÀÎ ¾Èµå¶óÀ̸óÀÌ ÀåÀΰú ÇÔ²² ´Þ·Á¿Ô´Ù. ±×µéÀÌ µå·ò¿ÀÆä´Â ¾îµð °¬´À³Ä°í ¹¯ÀÚ À̿÷¹´Â »õ·Î ÇÇ¾î³ ¿¬²ÉÀ» °¡¸®Ä×´Ù. ±×µéÀº ¿Â±â°¡ ³²¾Æ ÀÖ´Â ³ª¹« Áٱ⸦ Æ÷¿ËÇÏ¸ç ±× ÀÙ¿¡´Ù ¼ö¾øÀÌ Å°½º¸¦ ÆÛºÎ¾ú´Ù.
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Now there was nothing left of Dryope but her face. Her
tears still flowed and fell on her leaves, and while she
could she spoke. "I am not guilty. I deserve not this
fate. I have injured no one. If I speak falsely, may my
foliage perish with drought and my trunk be cut down and
burned. Take this infant and give it to a nurse. Let it
often be brought and nursed under my branches, and play in
my shade; and when he is old enough to talk, let him be
taught to call me mother, and to say with sadness, 'My
mother lies hid under this bark.' But bid him be careful
of river banks, and beware how he plucks flowers,
remembering that every bush he sees may be a goddess in
disguise. Farewell, dear husband, and sister, and father.
If you retain any love for me, let not the axe wound me,
nor the flocks bite and tear my branches. Since I cannot
stoop to you, climb up hither and kiss me; and while my
lips continue to feel, lift up my child that I may kiss
him. I can speak no more, for already the bark advances up
my neck, and will soon shoot over me. You need not close
my eyes, the bark will close them without your aid."
Then the lips ceased to move, and life was extinct: but
the branches retained for some time longer the vital heat.
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µå·ò¿ÀÆäÀÇ ¸öÀº ¿ÏÀüÈ÷ º¯Çϰí, ¾ó±¼¸¸ÀÌ ³²¾Æ ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. ´«¹°ÀÌ Èê·¯ ÀÙ À§¿¡ ¶³¾îÁ³´Ù. ±×¶§±îÁö´Â ¸»À» ÇÒ ¼ö ÀÖ¾úÀ¸¹Ç·Î µå·ò¿ÀÆä´Â ´ÙÀ½°ú °°ÀÌ ¸»Çß´Ù.
"Àú´Â Á˰¡ ¾ø½À´Ï´Ù. ÀÌ·± ¿î¸íÀ» ¹Þ¾Æ¾ß ÇÒ ÀÌÀ¯°¡ ¾ø½À´Ï´Ù. ´©±¸¿¡°Ôµµ ÇØ¸¦ ³¢Ä£ ÀÏÀÌ ¾ø½À´Ï´Ù. Á¦ ¸»ÀÌ °ÅÁþÀ̶ó¸é Á¦ ÀÙÀÌ ¸»¶ó ¹ö¸®°í ÁٱⰡ Àß·Á¼ ºÒ ¼Ó¿¡ µé¾î°¡µµ ÁÁ½À´Ï´Ù. ÀÌ ¾Ö±â¸¦ µ¥¸®°í °¡¼ À¯¸ð¿¡°Ô ¸Ã±â½Ê½Ã¿À. ¾Ö±â¸¦ Á¾Á¾ À̰÷À¸·Î µ¥¸®°í ¿Í¼ Á¦ °¡Áö ¹Ø¿¡¼ Á¥À» ¸ÔÀ̰í, Á¦ ±×´Ã ¼Ó¿¡¼ ³î°Ô ÇÏ¿© ÁֽʽÿÀ. ±×¸®°í ¾Ö±â°¡ ÀÚ¶ó¼ ¸»À» ÇÒ ¼ö ÀÖ°Ô µÇ°Åµç Àú¸¦ ¾î¸Ó´Ï¶ó°í ºÎ¸£µµ·Ï °¡¸£ÃÄ ÁֽʽÿÀ. ±×¸®°í <³ªÀÇ ¾î¸Ó´Ï´Â ÀÌ ³ª¹« ¼Ó¿¡ ¼û¾î ÀÖ´Ù.>´Â ¸»À» ½½ÆÛÇÏ¸é¼ ¸»Çϵµ·Ï ÇÏ¿© ÁֽʽÿÀ. °º¯À» ÁÖÀÇÇϰí, °ü¸ñ ´ýºÒÀ» º¸°Åµç ¿©½ÅÀÌ º¯½ÅÇÑ °ÍÀ̳ª ¾Æ´Ñ°¡ °æ°èÇÏ¿© ²ÉÀ» ²ªÁö ¾Êµµ·Ï ÁÖÀÇÇ϶ó°í ÀÏ·¯ÁֽʽÿÀ. ÀÚ, ±×·¯¸é »ç¶ûÇÏ´Â ³²Æí, µ¿»ý, ¾Æ¹öÁö, ¾È³çÈ÷ °è½Ê½Ã¿À. ¾ÆÁ÷µµ Àú¸¦ »ç¶ûÇÏ¿© ÁÖ½Å´Ù¸é µµ³¢°¡ Á¦ ¸öÀ» ´ÙÄ¡°Å³ª »õ³ª Áü½ÂµéÀÌ Á¦ °¡Áö¸¦ ¹°¾î¶â´Â ÀÏÀÌ ¾øµµ·Ï ÇØ ÁֽʽÿÀ. Àú´Â ÀÌÁ¦´Â ¸öÀ» ±¸ºÎ¸± ¼ö°¡ ¾øÀ¸´Ï, ´ç½ÅµéÀÌ À̰÷À¸·Î ¿Ã¶ó¿Í¼ Á¦°Ô Ű½ºÇØ ÁֽʽÿÀ. ±×¸®°í Á¦ ÀÔ¼úÀÌ °¨°¢À» Áö´Ï°í ÀÖ´Â µ¿¾È¿¡´Â Ű½º¸¦ ÇϰԲû ¾Ö±â¸¦ Ãĵé¾î ÁֽʽÿÀ. ÀÌÁ¦´Â ´õ ¸»ÇÒ ¼ö ¾ø°Ô µÇ¾ú½À´Ï´Ù. ÀÌ¹Ì ²®ÁúÀÌ ¸ñ±îÁö ¿Ã¶ó¿Í °ð Àü½ÅÀ» ½Î°Ô µÉ Å״ϱî¿ä. ÀúÀÇ ´«À» °¨°Ü ÁÖ½Ç ÇÊ¿ä´Â ¾ø½À´Ï´Ù. ÀúÀý·Î ´«ÀÌ °¨°ÜÁú Å״ϱî¿ä."
¸»À» ¸¶Ä¡ÀÚ. ÀÌÀ¹°í ÀÔ¼úÀº ¿òÁ÷ÀÌÁö ¾Ê°í »ý¸íÀº ²÷¾îÁö°í ¸»¾Ò´Ù. ±×·¯³ª °¡Áö¿¡´Â ¾ó¸¶ µ¿¾ÈÀº ü¿ÂÀÌ ³²¾Æ ÀÖ¾ú´Ù.
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Keats,
in "Endymion," alludes to Dryope thus:
"She took a lute from which there pulsing came
A lively prelude, fashioning the way
In which her voice should wander. 'Twas a lay
More subtle-cadenced, more forest-wild
Than Dryope's lone lulling of her child;" etc.
[see also: Poetical
Works of Keats for complete Endymion]
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VENUS AND ADONIS
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¾ÆÇÁ·ÎµðÅ×¿Í ¾Æµµ´Ï½º
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Venus (Aphrodite),
playing one day with her boy Cupid (Eros),
wounded her bosom with one of his arrows. She pushed him
away, but the wound was deeper than she thought. Before it
healed she beheld Adonis, and was captivated with him. She
no longer took any interest in her favourite resorts - Paphos,
and Cnidos, and Amathos, rich in metals. She absented herself even from heaven, for Adonis was
dearer to her than heaven. Him she followed and bore him
company. |
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¾î´À ³¯ ¾ÆÇÁ·ÎµðÅ×[º£´©½º]´Â ¾Æµé ¿¡·Î½º¿Í ³î´Ù°¡ ¾ÆµéÀÌ °¡Áö°í ÀÖ´ø Ȼ쿡 »óó¸¦ ÀÔ¾ú´Ù. ¼ø°£ ±×³à´Â À绡¸® ¾ÆµéÀ» ¹Ð¾î³ÂÀ¸³ª, »óó´Â »ý°¢ÇÑ °Íº¸´Ù ±í¾ú´Ù. »óó¸¦ ÀÔÀº ¾ÆÇÁ·ÎµðÅ×´Â ¾Æµµ´Ï½º¸¦ º¸ÀÚ ´Ü¹ø¿¡ ¸ÅȤµÇ¾ú´Ù. ±×³à´Â ÀÌÁ¦±îÁö Àß ´Ù´Ï´ø ÆÄÆ÷½º ¸¶À»µµ, Å©´Ïµµ½º ¼¶µµ, °Ô´Ù°¡ ±¤¹°ÀÌ Ç³ºÎÇÑ ¾Æ¸¶Å佺¿¡µµ ¾Æ¹«·± Èï¹Ì¸¦ ´À³¢Áö ¾Ê°Ô µÇ¾ú´Ù. ±×³à´Â õ»ó¿¡ ¿À¸¦ ¼öµµ ¾ø°Ô µÇ¾ú´Ù. ¿Ö³ÄÇϸé õ»óº¸´Ùµµ ¾Æµµ´Ï½º ÂÊÀÌ Áß¿äÇ߱⠶§¹®À̾ú´Ù. ±×³à´Â ¾Æµµ´Ï½ºÀÇ µÚ¸¦ µû¶ó´Ù³æ´Ù. |
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She who used to love to recline in the shade,
with no care but to cultivate her charms, now rambles
through the woods and over the hills, dressed like the
huntress Diana; and calls her dogs, and chases hares and
stags, or other game that it is safe to hunt, but keeps
clear of the wolves and bears, reeking with the slaughter
of the herd. She charged Adonis, too, to beware of such
dangerous animals.
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ÀÌÁ¦±îÁö ÀÚ±âÀÇ ¿ë¸ð¸¦ ¾Æ¸§´ä°Ô ÇÏ´Â µ¥¸¸ °ü½ÉÀ» °¡Áö°í ±×´Ã ¹Ø¿¡¼ ÈÞ½ÄÀ» Áñ±â´ø ¾ÆÇÁ·ÎµðÅ׿´À¸³ª, ÀÌÁ¦´Â ¼ö·ÆÀÇ ¿©½ÅÀÎ ¾Æ¸£Å׹̽º¿Í °°Àº ¿ÊÂ÷¸²À» ÇÏ°í ½£¼ÓÀ» Áö³ª°Å³ª »êÀ» ³ÑÀ¸¸ç À̸®Àú¸® µ¹¾Æ ´Ù³æ´Ù. ±×¸®°í ÀÚ±âÀÇ °³¸¦ ºÒ·¯ Åä³¢³ª »ç½¿À̳ª ±âŸ À§Ç輺ÀÌ ¾ø´Â µ¿¹°¸¸À» »ç³ÉÇϰí, »ç³É²Û¿¡°Ô ´ýºµå´Â ´Á´ë³ª °õÀº ÇÇÇß´Ù. ¾ÆÇÁ·ÎµðÅ×´Â ¾Æµµ´Ï½º¿¡°Ôµµ °æ°èÇϵµ·Ï ŸÀÏ·¶´Ù.
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"Be brave towards the timid,"
said she; "courage against the courageous is not
safe. Beware how you expose yourself to danger and put my
happiness to risk. Attack not the beasts that Nature has
armed with weapons. I do not value your glory so high as
to consent to purchase it by such exposure. Your youth,
and the beauty that charms Venus, will not touch the
hearts of lions and bristly boars. Think of their terrible
claws and prodigious strength! I hate the whole race of
them. Do you ask me why?" Then she told him the story
of Atalanta
and Hippomenes,
who were changed into lions for their ingratitude to her.
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Having given him this warning, she mounted her chariot
drawn by swans, and drove away through the air. But Adonis
was too noble to heed such counsels. The dogs had roused a
wild boar from his lair, and the youth threw his spear and
wounded the animal with sidelong stroke. The beast drew
out the weapon with his jaws, and rushed after Adonis, who
turned and ran; but the boar overtook him, and buried his
tusks in his side, and stretched him dying upon the plain.
Venus, in her swan-drawn chariot, had not yet reached
Cyprus, when she heard coming up through mid-air the
groans of her beloved, and turned her white-winged
coursers back to earth. |
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¾ÆÇÁ·ÎµðÅ×´Â ¾Æµµ´Ï½º¿¡°Ô ÀÌ·¯ÇÑ °æ°í¸¦ Çϰí, ÀÌÀ¹°í ¹éÁ¶°¡ ²ô´Â ÀÌ·ûÂ÷¸¦ Ÿ°í õ°øÀ» ³¯¾Æ°¬´Ù. ±×·¯³ª ¾Æµµ´Ï½º´Â ÀÌ¿Í °°Àº Ãæ°í¸¦ ÁöŰ±â¿¡´Â ³Ê¹«µµ °í±ÍÇß´Ù. °³µéÀÌ »êµÅÁö¸¦ ±¼¿¡¼ ¸ô¾Æ³»ÀÚ. ÀþÀºÀÌ´Â ¼Õ¿¡ âÀ» µé°í ¾ß¼öÀÇ ¿·±¸¸®¸¦ Âñ·¶´Ù. ±×·¯ÀÚ »êµÅÁö´Â ±×¸¦ Ãß°ÝÇÏ¿© ±×ÀÇ ¿·±¸¸®¸¦ ¹°¾î¶â¾ú´Ù. ¾Æµµ´Ï½º´Â Ä¡¸íÀûÀÎ »óó¸¦ ÀÔ°í µéÆÇ¿¡ ¾²·¯Á³´Ù.¾ÆÇÁ·ÎµðÅ×´Â ¹éÁ¶°¡ ²ô´Â ÀÌ·ûÂ÷¸¦ Ÿ°í ÇÏ´ÃÀ» ³¯°í ÀÖ¾úÀ¸³ª ÀÌÁ÷ ŰÇÁ·Î½º ¼¶¿¡´Â ´êÁö ¾Ê¾Ò´Ù. ±×¶§ »ç¶ûÇÏ´Â »ç¶÷ÀÌ ½ÅÀ½ÇÏ´Â ¼Ò¸®°¡ °ø±â¸¦ Ÿ°í µé·Á¿Ô´Ù.
±×³à´Â ´Ù½Ã ¹éÁ¶¸¦ Áö»óÀ¸·Î ÇâÇÏ°Ô Çß´Ù. |
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As she drew near and saw from on
high his lifeless body bathed in blood, she alighted and,
bending over it, beat her breast and tore her hair.
Reproaching the Fates, she said, "Yet theirs shall be
but a partial triumph; memorials of my grief shall endure,
and the spectacle of your death, my Adonis, and of my
lamentation shall be annually renewed. Your blood shall be
changed into a flower; that consolation none can envy
me." Thus speaking, she sprinkled nectar on the
blood; and as they mingled, bubbles rose as in a pool on
which raindrops fall, and in an hour's time there sprang
up a flower of bloody hue like that of the pomegranate.
But it is short-lived. It is said the wind blows the
blossoms open, and afterwards blows the petals away; so it
is called Anemone,
or Wind Flower, from the cause which assists equally
in its production and its decay.
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ÀÌÀ¹°í °øÁß¿¡¼ ÇÇÅõ¼ºÀ̰¡ µÈ ¾Æµµ´Ï½ºÀÇ ½Ãü¸¦ ¹ß°ßÇÏÀÚ ±ÞÈ÷ Áö»ó¿¡ ³»·Á ½Ãü À§¿¡ ¾þµå·Á °¡½¿À» Ä¡¸ç ¸Ó¸®¸¦ Áã¾î¶â¾ú´Ù. ±×³à´Â ¿î¸íÀÇ ¿©½ÅÀ» ¿ø¸ÁÇϸç ÀÌ·¸°Ô ¸»Çß´Ù.
"¿À³Ä, ³ª´Â ¹«¾ùÀÌµç ¿î¸íÀÇ ¿©½ÅÀÇ ½Â¸®·Î µ¹¸®Áö ¾Ê°Ú´Ù. ³ªÀÇ ½½Çĸ¸ÀÌ ¾ðÁ¦±îÁö³ª ³²À» °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ³ªÀÇ ¾Æµµ´Ï½º¿©, ³ª´Â ´ç½ÅÀÇ Á×À½°ú ³ªÀÇ ¾ÖÅëÀÇ ±¤°æÀÌ ¸Å³â »õ·Î¿ÍÁöµµ·Ï ³ë·ÂÇϰھî¿ä. ´ç½ÅÀÌ È기 ÇÇ´Â ²ÉÀ¸·Î º¯ÇÏ°Ô Çϸ®´Ù. ¾Æ¹«µµ À̸¦ ¸»¸± ¼ö ¾øÀ» °Ì´Ï´Ù."
ÀÌ·¸°Ô ¸»ÇÏ¸é¼ ±×³à´Â ±× ÇÇ À§¿¡ ½ÅÁÖ(½ÅÁÖ)¸¦ »Ñ·È´Ù. ÇÇ¿Í ½ÅÁÖ°¡ ¼¯ÀÌÀÚ ¸¶Ä¡ ¸ø[Áö] À§¿¡ ºø¹°ÀÌ ¶³¾îÁ³À» ¶§°°ÀÌ °ÅǰÀÌ ÀϾú´Ù. ±×¸®°í ÇÑ ½Ã°£Âë Áö³ªÀÚ. ¼®·ù²É °°Àº Çͺû ²ÉÀÌ ÇÑ ¼ÛÀÌ ÇǾú´Ù. ±×·¯³ª ±×°ÍÀº ´Ü¸íÇÑ °ÍÀ̾ú´Ù. ÀüÇÏ´Â ¹Ù¿¡ ÀÇÇÏ¸é ¹Ù¶÷ÀÌ ºÒ¾î¼ ²ÉÀ» ÇÇ°Ô Çϰí, ´Ù½Ã ¶Ç ºÒ¾î¼ ²ÉÀ» Áö°Ô ÇÑ´Ù´Â °ÍÀÌ´Ù. µû¶ó¼ ±×°ÍÀ» ¾Æ³×¸ð³×, Áï <¹Ù¶÷²É>À̶ó ºÎ¸£´Âµ¥, ±×°ÍÀº ±× ²ÉÀÌ Çǰí Áö´Â ¿øÀÎÀÌ ´Ù ¹Ù¶÷À̱⠶§¹®ÀÌ´Ù.
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Milton
alludes to the story of Venus and Adonis in his "Comus:
"Beds of hyacinth and roses
Where young Adonis oft reposes,
Waxing well of his deep wound
In slumber soft, and on the ground
Sadly sits th' Assyrian queen;" etc.
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APOLLO AND HYACINTHUS
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¾ÆÆú·Ð°ú ÈÖ¾ÆÅ²Å佺
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Apollo
was passionately fond of a youth named Hyacinthus. He.
accompanied him in his sports, carried the nets when he
went fishing, led the dogs when he went to hunt, followed
him in his excursions in the mountains, and neglected for
him his lyre and his arrows. One day they played a game of
quoits together, and Apollo, heaving aloft the discus,
with strength mingled with skill, sent it high and far.
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¾ÆÆú·ÐÀº ÈÖ¾ÆÅ²Å佺¶ó´Â ¼Ò³âÀ» ¸÷½Ã ±Í¿©¿öÇß´Ù. ±×·¡¼ ±×´Â ¿©·¯ °¡Áö °æ±â¿¡ ¼Ò³âÀ» µ¥¸®°í °¬°í, °í±â¸¦ ÀâÀ¸·¯ °¥ ¶§µµ ±×¸¦ À§ÇØ ±×¹°À» µé¾î ÁÖ¾ú°í, »ç³ÉÀ» °¥ ¶§µµ °³¸¦ ²ø¾î ÁÖ¾úÀ¸¸ç ¼ÒdzÀ» °¥ ¶§¿¡µµ ½ÃÁßÀ» µé¾î ÁÖ¾ú´Ù. ÀÌ¿Í °°ÀÌ ¼Ò³â¿¡°Ô ¿ÁßÇÑ ³ª¸ÓÁö ¾ÆÆú·ÐÀº ÀÚ±âÀÇ ¼ÒÁßÇÑ ¸®¶ó³ª È»ìÀº µ¹º¸Áö ¾Ê¾Ò´Ù. ¾î´Â ³¯ ±×´Â ¿ø¹Ý´øÁö±â¸¦ Çϰí ÀÖ¾ú´Ù. ¾ÆÆú·ÐÀº ÀçÁÖ¿Í ÈûÀ» °âºñÇϰí ÀÖ¾úÀ¸¹Ç·Î ¿ø¹ÝÀ» ³ôÀÌ µé°í ÇÏ´Ã ³ôÀÌ ´øÁ³´Ù.
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Hyacinthus watched it as it flew, and excited with the
sport ran forward to seize it, eager to make his throw,
when the quoit bounded from the earth and struck him in
the forehead. He fainted and fell. The god, as pale as
himself, raised him and tried all his art to stanch the
wound and retain the flitting life, but all in vain; the
hurt was past the power of medicine. As when one has
broken the stem of a lily in the garden it hangs its head
and turns its flowers to the earth, so the head of the
dying boy, as if too heavy for his neck, fell over on his
shoulder. "Thou diest, Hyacinth," so spoke
Phoebus, "robbed of thy youth by me. Thine is the
suffering, mine the crime. Would that I could die for
thee! But since that may not be, thou shalt live with me
in memory and in song. My lyre shall celebrate thee, my
song shall tell thy fate, and thou shalt become a flower
inscribed with my regrets."
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È÷¾ÆÅ²Å佺´Â ±×°ÍÀÌ ³¯¾Æ °¡´Â °ÍÀ» ÃÄ´Ùº¸¾Ò´Ù. °æ±â¿¡ ¿ÁßÇÑ ³ª¸ÓÁö Àڱ⵵ ¾î¼ ´øÁö°í ½Í¾î¼ ¿ø¹ÝÀ» ÀâÀ¸·Á°í ´Þ·Á°¬´Ù. ±×¶§ ¿ø¹ÝÀÌ ¶¥¿¡¼ Æ¢´Â ¹Ù¶÷¿¡ ÈÖ¾ÆÅ²Å佺ÀÇ À̸¶¿¡ ¸Â¾Ò´Ù. ±×´Â ±âÀýÇÏ°í ¾²·¯Á³´Ù. ±×¿Í ´Ù¸§¾øÀÌ Ã¢¹éÇØÁø ¾ÆÆú·ÐÀº ±×¸¦ ¾È¾Æ ÀÏÀ¸ÄѼ »óóÀÇ ÃâÇ÷À» ¸·°í, ´Þ¾Æ³ª´Â »ý¸êÀ» ºÙÀâÀ¸·Á°í Àü·ÂÀ» ´ÙÇß´Ù. ±×·¯³ª ¸ðµÎ Çã»ç¿´´Ù .ºÎ»óÀº ¾àÀ¸·Î´Â °íÄ¥ ¼ö°¡ ¾ø¾ú´Ù. ¶ã ¾È¿¡ ÀÖ´Â ¹éÇÕ²ÉÀÇ Áٱ⸦ ²ªÀ¸¸é ¸Ó¸®°¡ ¼ö±×·¯Áö°í ²ÉÀÌ Áö¸éÀ» ÇâÇÏ´Â °Í°ú °°ÀÌ, Á׾´Â ÈÖ¾ÆÅ²Å佺ÀÇ ¸Ó¸®´Â ¸ñ¿¡ ºÙ¾î ÀÖ´Â °ÍÀÌ ¹«°Å¿î µíÀÌ ¾î±ú À§·Î ´Ã¾îÁ³´Ù. Æ÷À̺¸½º[¾ÆÆú·Ð]Àº ºñÅëÇÏ°Ô ¸»Çß´Ù.
"³Ê´Â ³ª ¶§¹®¿¡ ûÃáÀ» »©¾Ñ±â°í Á׾´Â±¸³ª. ³×°¡ ¾òÀº °ÍÀº °íÅëÀÌ¿ä, ³»°¡ ¾òÀº °ÍÀº Á˷δÙ. ¸¾´ë·Î ÇÒ ¼ö ÀÖ´Ù¸é ³Ê ´ë½Å ³»°¡ Á×¾úÀ¸¸é ÁÁ°Ú´Ù. ±×·¯³ª ±×·² ¼öµµ ¾øÀ¸¹Ç·Î ³Ê¸¦ ±â¾ï°ú ³ë·¡ ¼Ó¿¡¼ ÇÔ²² »ì°Ô Çϸ®¶ó. ³ªÀÇ ¸®¶ó´Â ³Ê¸¦ μÛÇÒ °ÍÀ̸ç, ³ªÀÇ ³ë·¡´Â ³ÊÀÇ ¿î¸íÀ» ³ë·¡ÇÒ °ÍÀÌ´Ù. ±×¸®°í ³Ê´Â ³ªÀÇ ¾ÖÅëÇÑ ¸¶À½À» ¾Æ·Î»õ±ä ²ÉÀÌ µÇ°Ô ÇÒ °ÍÀÌ´Ù."
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While Apollo spoke,
behold the blood which had flowed on the ground and
stained the herbage ceased to be blood; but a flower of
hue more beautiful than the Tyrian
sprang up, resembling the lily, if it were not that this
is purple and that silvery white.* And this was not enough
for Phoebus; but to confer still greater honour, he marked
the petals with his sorrow, and inscribed "Ah!
ah!" upon them, as we see to this day. The flower
bears the name of Hyacinthus,
and with every returning spring revives the memory of his
fate. |

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¾ÆÆú·ÐÀÌ ÀÌ·¸°Ô ¸»Çϰí ÀÖ´Â µ¿¾È¿¡ ÀÌ»óÇϰԵµ ÀÌÁ¦±îÁö Áö¸é¿¡ Èê·¯ Ç®À» ¹°µéÀ̰í ÀÖ´ø ÇÇ´Â º¯ÇÏ¿©, Æ¢·Î½º»ê(»ê) ¿°·áº¸´Ùµµ ´õ ¾Æ¸§´Ù¿î ºû±òÀÇ ²ÉÀÌ µÇ¾ú´Ù. ±× ²ÉÀº ¹éÇղɰú °°¾Ò´Âµ¥, ¿ÀÁ÷ ¹éÇÕÀº Àº¹é»öÀε¥, ±× ²ÉÀº ÁøÈ«ºûÀ̶ó´Â Á¡ÀÌ ´Ù¸¦ »ÓÀ̾ú´Ù. À̰͸¸À¸·Ð ºÎÁ·ÇÏ¿© ´õ Å« ¸í¿¹¸¦ ¼ö¿©Çϱâ À§ÇØ ¾ÆÆú·ÐÀº ±× ²ÉÀÙ À§¿¡ <¾Æ¾Æ(Ah ! ah !)>¶ó´Â ±ÛÀÚÀÇ ¸ð¾çÀ» ¾Æ·Î»õ°Ü ±×ÀÇ ½½ÇÄÀ» Ç¥½ÃÇߴµ¥, Áö±Ýµµ ¿ì¸®´Â ±× ¸ð¾çÀ» º¼ ¼ö ÀÖ´Ù.
ÀÌ ²ÉÀº ÈÖ¾ÆÅ²Å佺¶ó°í ºÎ¸£°Ô µÇ¾ú°í, ¸Å³â º½ÀÌ ¿À¸é ÇǾî ÈÖ¾ÆÅ²Å佺ÀÇ ¿î¸íÀÇ ±â¾ïÀ» »õ·Ó°Ô Çϰí ÀÖ´Ù. |
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* It is evidently not our modern hyacinth that is here
described. It is perhaps some species of iris, or perhaps
of larkspur or pansy.
It was said that Zephyrus
(the West wind), who was also fond of Hyacinthus and
jealous of his preference of Apollo, blew the quoit out of
its course to make it strike Hyacinthus. Keats
alludes to this in his "Endymion," where he
describes the lookers-on at the game of quoits:
"Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent
On either side, pitying the sad death
Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath
Of Zephyr slew him; Zephyr penitent,
Who now ere Phoebus mounts the firmament,
Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain."
[see Poetical
Works of John Keats for complete Endymion.]
An allusion to Hyacinthus will also be recognized in
Milton's "Lycidas":
"Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with
woe."
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Back to Chapter VII
On to Chapter IX
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¡¡THOMAS BULFINCH
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