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Updated: July 3, 2025
This is not the first time you have been attendant on Apollo and Miss Dryope? You have written to headquarters?" "I did my duty, Mr. Hadrian." The wise youth returned to Lady Blandish, and informed her of Benson's zeal. The lady's eyes flashed. "I hope Richard will treat him as he deserves," she said. "Shall we home?" Adrian inquired. "Do me a favour;" the lady replied.
"And then, in all my ardor sharing, The silent form expression found; Returned my kiss of youthful 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." Dryope and Iole were sisters.
Some had been transformed against their will, that they might do no more harm to their fellow-men. Some were changed through the pity of the gods, that they might share the simple life of Pan, mindless of mortal cares, glad in rain and sunshine, and always close to the heart of the Earth. There was Dryope, for instance, the lotus-tree.
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. 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.
"And then, in all my ardor sharing, The silent form expression found; Returned my kiss of youthful 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." Dryope and Iole were sisters.
They were intending to gather flowers for forming garlands for the altars of the nymphs, and Dryope carried her child at her bosom, a precious burden, and nursed him as she walked. Near the water grew a lotus plant, full of purple flowers.
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.
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. 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.
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, had been changed into this form. This they learned from the country people when it was too late.
Then the lips ceased to move, and life was extinct; but the branches retained for some time longer the vital heat. 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. 'T was a lay More subtle-cadenced, more forest-wild Than Dryope's lone lulling of her child;" etc.
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