Memoranda Deorum

Memoranda Deorum

Open Thine Eyes

The wind whispered.

Or was it voice human.

A tear from Her Eye fell.

Sky wept.

Hush, said She, listen.

Forgotten, said He.

Aeolus' message louder ring.

Listen, O' Mother, said He.

I hear, O' Father!

Immortal Children! Hear!

Reverent, voices rise!

Of those who remember!

Arise, by whatever name

Thou are called!

Old tales told

Voices plea to Gods.

Listen, listen, said He!

Peacock to remind sent

By Regina's hand.

Heaven's tears stayed

By Diespiter might.

Perfume, oxen, lamb et wine

Brought to altars

Gods for boons

Vows of promise upon receipt

In sacrifice and feast

O’ Immortals, by whatever name

Thou are called

Forgotten you shall never be!

21Apr2012©Aquila

*Note this prose is the product of a new moon ceremony and meditation

The Day My Son Went Missing

The revival of search for Etan Patz’s body and his murderer has brought back so many emotions I thought, hoped, I would never feel again. This little boy, just six years old, disappeared on his way to school May 26^th 1979. Etan’s photo preserves that wonderful look of guileless wonder and expectation bright young boys of that age have, still innocent – at the far edge of babyhood when they are moving towards independence to embrace the world. Fearlessly expecting the world to embrace them back with good intentions. Like a photo of my own son who in the summer of 1979 went missing.

There are memories of that day that will forever be with me, always.

It was a Saturday, no school, we had had a busy fun morning outside in the beautiful weather. The darling boys, my 3 y/o toddler Travis and 6 y/o Jason were tuckered out and both had to be carried sleeping from the car into the house and tucked in their beds. I took advantage of the time and hoped for two hours to catch up on some cleaning and opened all the windows and doors for a good airing out. We had locks on our screen doors and screens as my little one was a climber. I was folding freshly laundered clothing and had silently gone in the boys’ room to put the clothing in their chest of drawers and to check on them. They were both soundly sleeping. I stopped for a moment and gazed at them. To me they were the most beautiful beings I had ever seen; both were charming in their own ways. My Travis’ his straight mahogany hair sticking up this way and that as he slept, his dare devil attitude and mischievousness written on the small smile he wore in his sleep. Jason’s blond curls fell onto his face, which also bore a small smile as he dreamed. Two angelic beings – just as all young children appear in their sleep. Just as a sleeping Etan Patz was looked upon by his own parents.

But my thoughts were far from Etan Patz, even though it was still mentioned frequently: occurring only a couple of months ago. My thoughts were on putting away the cleaning supplies and picking up anything I may have missed – I knew by looking at my sleeping children I was lucky if I had 15 minutes before they awoke. No more than five minutes had passed when I had reentered the bedroom to put one of Travis’ stuffed toys in his toy chest. Travis was fast asleep, he had worn himself out; he had fallen back into a deep sleep.

Jason was gone.   

                                                                                                  

Unconcerned at first I called for him quietly so I would not disturb Travis and thought he had either gone into the bathroom or to the kitchen. He was nowhere to be found in the house. Nowhere. I searched outside calling frantically! I called the police. Jason had been a favorite of the neighbors and they were all out in force looking, my mother arrived and took Travis from my hesitant arms, within five minutes there were police cars and detectives, policeman on foot, in cars, questions, interviewing neighbors and the construction worker paving the far end of the street, photos – all this occurring as I somehow managed to exist through the utter anguish that contorted my very core, an anguish and fear I will never ever be able to convey in words. No one saw my little boy. No one saw my beloved firstborn. The thoughts that went through my head, so horrid, so terrible as my mind incorporated strong defense mechanisms so I would not fall apart. Tears fell silently from time to time; I had to gain control to keep clear. My precious boy needed me. Where was he? Who would take him? Jason never wandered off before but I remembered how proud and excited he was to walk to school all by himself. I was disconcerted and not wholly on board at first but the school was encouraging parents to allow children in the immediate vicinity to walk to school to cut down on traffic at the Long Island, N.Y. school. It was a 2 ½ block straight shot from the corner of our lane to the school so I could stand and watch him and be there waiting for him. We had walked the route many times to explore a small one acre preserved wooded area where the boys could also climb huge rocks.  Further on down by the school was a park with slides, swings, sandbox and other great playground equipment.  In those days, we walked everywhere. The “village” began at the far end of our block, we simply made a right and there were two long blocks of all kinds of shopping. Jason knew that route as well. He knew the butcher, the pharmacist, the ladies at the “five and ten,” the librarian, the grocers and many of the little shops – even my physician. All were searched, all were being searched. People and Police alike were trying to appear calm but Etan Patz disappearance was too fresh. The similarities between the two boys physical description was too close. Their worried looks intensified my fears.

It was just an hour that had gone by but it felt like an eternity! At that point I heard cheerful relieved voices! He was found up the block at the wooded preserve: he had finished collecting various leaves, bugs, pebbles and was sitting on a rock singing Sesame Street songs.

When I saw him coming down the lane, my precious child smiling, one little hand in the tall policeman’s, the other holding his plastic Oscar the Grouch bucket full of his treasures and wearing the policeman’s huge hat, the world got brighter, I got lighter, I could feel the blood rush into face and I ran to him and gathered him in my arms.

He was not expecting all the policemen, police cars, detectives and neighbors. His lushly lashed eyes went from fun and excitement to a worried confusion that mostly disappeared when he espied grandma holding my beloved Travis and his whole face was alight! I held him tightly against me and told him I loved him.

He turned that beautiful face to me, his huge bright water blue eyes full of discovery, his momentary confusion dissolved and with a dazzling smile Jason declared:

“Mommy I can feel your heart!”

“You are my heart” I choked out.

23Apr2012©Aquila

A Sonnet for My Father

A Sonnet for My Father

My love for thee is preserve’d even still

That thee are no more matters not my heart

Your love built strength, dignitas instill’d

Mind mine is full of your smile sublime

Freely given form of love, of virtue

With wide open eyes your voice I hear

Laughter fills thoughts that once fill’d our home

That mirth still resounds, it comforts even now

Tears at times I shed, reason not without

For long gone you are but past cure am I

But the gifts many you laid at my feet

Joy, compassion, honor are but a few:

   Resilience inherent keeps me afloat

   Thee who taught love, Father’s Day I devote.

J. Aquila © 16June2011

Non-fiction

The Feenjon … a magical cafe

Preface: I wrote this a few years ago based on memory. I am sure there is a romantic nostalgic element to this stroll down memory lane and there is a great possibility I knitted together "neighboring" memories of the West and East Village area in NYC; but this is how I remember it.

The Feenjon

                          … a magical cafe                        

 Off an eternally wet cobblestone street in the bohemian West Village, about a half block down from Washington Square Park, maybe between W. 4^th St. and Bleeker St., off MacDougal St., I think, sat a quaint little establishment called the Feenjon. Or at least I think that is how it was spelled.  Now it might not be called that now as this was back when I was in my teens beginning at about age 14 or 15 I would sneak out of my comfortable and safe Long Island suburban home to slip into the city. Believe me that was long ago, late 1960’s early 70’s.  My friends and I, who btw never got caught, well I don’t think, would drink the coldest fizziest cokes, eat huge crispy hot fries, sometimes play chess, while listening to a truly mix of fine music. Ok, so they did Folk too, well mostly really, and yes, Poetry readings, this was fine because that was when the other senses of the bistro would shine to keep me, and the others, from boredom. These were the Feenjon’s true treasures.

Since we often arrived after midnight, the little Shoppe’s on either side were closed, their windows darkened, and since  the Feenjon had no windows on the ground floor at this level it made it seem more shrouded and mysterious. That is the way I remember it anyway. There was always a friendly face, the covert bouncer or the bouncer and a greeter, dressed in Village Chic, mostly underdressed, attractive, NYU students or Grads waiting for their big break, with the flavor of the neighborhood. I never remember being asked for a cover, but there was an unwritten rule that you buy at least one menu item per visit, a rule that a pleasant server would remind you of, in case you have forgotten.

The main entrance appeared to be a cool tenebrous open maw that wound into an alcove with a gloomy amber glow that had an almost unsettling welcome to it.  Just a second before descending down into the dark tunnel the senses were gifted with the faint cloying whisper of music that enticed one into an inevitable paradise. Regardless of any apprehension you might have had one also sensed the strong gravitational pull of relaxation that drew you into a place where it is all good so any trepidation dissolved immediately. Perhaps the unease came from the fact that you knew once you descend into the Feenjon’s belly you must helplessly submit leaving all stress outside; only relaxation and pleasure need ensue.

After ascending from the long, cool, thankfully wide, tunnel lit only by Christmas lights the actual Feenjon came into sight; an airy huge room full of old mismatched wooden and metal  tables, chairs and benches gleaming from years of “body polishing”. To the left, I think, along a wall is one of the longest bars I have ever seen, or that is how I remember it, it snaked along the wall in a convex fashion and from the entrance you cannot see where it ends. You got the feeling were are standing on the edge of a torch lit medieval hall with low wood accented ceilings and beyond it lay labyrinthine passageways. Your sense is partially right as doors and levels, one laid in amphitheater style, artistically break up the rooms and areas beyond it so some patrons can enjoy the music and even see the artist over the table in front of them, others can enjoy the company of others in yet another room and still others can enjoy peace, quiet and introspection in another designated sphere. Eerie gossamer wisps of fragrant incense smoke decorated every part of the café dancing like lithe ethereal silver and ivory dancers that kept to themselves and left before becoming bothersome. Sometimes they were chased by obscene fogs of cigarette smoke, but yet, they never complained. Nor did the smoke bother too many customers because they had a great ventilation system, one that sometimes caused a momentary chill in the air in the cold New York winters when it cleaned the air. Somehow that reminiscence is comforting.

This just adds another shining layer to the memories of the Feenjon’s Treasures.

Its alluring ambiance lay not in its 50’s beatnik meets the 60’s Hippie décor but in the patrons who were magnetized to its spiritual affect; its sounds, sights, flavors, modes of stimulation and scents etched in their minds. The music or lighting, darkness really, beckon the patron to explore each nook and cranny the Feenjon has, or had, to offer.

I went there until my mid 20’s, visiting when I was in town for a while, it seemed as if it was always open, never closed but when the sun went down until the sun rose, it was a magical cafe. It was the kind of place where one went after dancing or after a visit with NYU students and the colorful population while hanging out in Washington Square Park. You could always find some simple hearty fare like out of this world onion soup, great yeast bread or a huge frothy cappuccino, and sit and relax the night away while starving musicians, and a more than occasional famous one, entertain for tips, or not. You never knew who would be sitting next to you, mulling over his/her own plate of the extravagantly priced repast and chatting fervently over the most current conflict, discovery or other current event. Bob Dylan, Dustin Hoffman to drop a couple of names. Or any topic from Organic Gardening to Philosophy to Metaphysical Ideations, no matter what eventually you were drawn into the depths of their thought; simple recipes became complex mathematical formulas. It was times like that when you suddenly looked around to see that not only did the conversation shift, but also many of those participating. Not only did it draw local and/or famous Musicians and Artists, but Playwrights, Philosophers, Commentators, Authors, Professors from surrounding Universities; those who were the shining beacons of 20^th Century Trends and revolutionary Thought. No one bothered getting autographs, that behavior was checked at the door, once inside everyone was equal; it was a training ground for cool. The Patrons; they were the true treasures. It was a Utopia in miniature where humanity was at its best.

Although located in the heart of Manhattan I never remember feeling threatened; even when I went out the back way on Minetta Lane I think it was called, to get some fresh air or to watch the pre-dawn traffic waiting for the sun to rise. These partial glass double wooden doors are actually not an exit but an entrance from the lane behind it and also the had only windows I remember as well: to get to it you had to go up some brick steps to a lovely brick patio that overlooked an intersection of narrow cobblestone lanes where several little avant-garde shops, florists, bakeries and art studios fill the neat upscale buildings. Well-made strong black French wrought iron glass top tables and chairs dotted the red brick patio, itself surrounded by the same ornate ironwork. In dry weather, huge weathered umbrellas and well worn overstuffed cushions appear, but even without them it was fairly comfortable. Nothing could detract from the sounds of the early morning. Or the star-filled skies at 3 am when the arms of your lover was required to keep you warm enough to enjoy the frost tinged air while the hot steam from a mug of their cappuccino leaves a slick of beaded droplets.

Or from the kiss, warm full impassioned lips tentatively pressed together before slowly reaching passionate depths.

Anyway on warm nights people might gravitate to the outside to enjoy the proliferation of flower beds, not only on the ground level terrace off the Patio  but on the balconies and terraces of the private apartments, town homes and lofts of the area’s residents. Depending upon the hour different aromas of the Village drifted about. Besides the entrancing florals there was an international menu of cuisines till late in the night and pastries being crafted in the hours before dawn. It was also in the hours just before dawn when I was often serenaded by glorious songbirds when even my breathing was barely discernable but other times one was serenaded by a plethora of instruments and other various modes of music, laughter, talking; the sound human.

And so, like so many times before I will once more say goodbye to the Feenjon, a place that will be with me forever.

26June2004 © Aquila


Non-fiction

Please enjoy the following links for a brief journey back in time:

http://placeandmemory.org/index.php?title=Cafe_Feenjon

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S4dImDe1Ruo

https://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=17747714000

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p0AFeFaUmsI&feature=related

http://www.folkways.si.edu/albumdetails.aspx?itemid=2589

http://archive.chazzanut.com/jewish-music/msg17867.html

http://www.flickr.com/photos/harold_stern/20219676/in/set-472613

http://www.life.com/image/2169425

A Memory for Veteran's Day Nov. 11 2010

Non-Fiction

Over thirty years ago as a young RN I would pick up extra shifts at the VA hospital to supplement my income from my regular job. I remember that Vets who were admitted for non-emergency surgeries would wait at least three weeks in-house before getting their surgeries. Particularly if you were on the ward which was a 40 bed unit assigned to one nurse. The four bed semi-private rooms were not much better but care was more immediate and palliative care was usually prescribed fairly early by interns, med students and if the Vets were real lucky, by the tough hardworking ex-vet full time RNs. There were two to four private rooms on each unit but they were for VIPs or for those who required quarantine. What drove the quality and timeliness of the care were the med students, interns and the residents who were the instructors – and they were slow. Average in house stay for a hernia was four to six weeks because these Vets made excellent guinea pigs. They had every test and procedure imaginable and they waited long periods between each one due to a lack of organization. The general consensus was that those “test subjects” were chosen because they lived alone or had no living spouse or were homeless but in general good health. The Vets on the ward were also mostly WW II vets and a few Korean war vets – Viet Nam war vets were usually on other floors or in the psych units – most VN vets had an initial psych eval as part of their admission. The Ward quickly became home to those admitted as they waited for their “surgeries”- most of which were unnecessary – they turned their beds and side tables into neat little living quarters, keeping them neat and clean, most changing and making their own beds as long as they were able. They organized card games, played chess and sat about telling stories and broke bread together. And they sang.

One morning after breakfast on a particularly gloomy and rainy day, after an announcement that surgeries scheduled for the next day were cancelled. The Vets coped as usual with jokes, a few curses under their breath and than sat on their beds waiting for procedures, meds and anything else that was the morning routine (which usually lasted to lunchtime), the men were more quiet as usual probably because of the rain – the ward looked darker in the rain, the sound of the rain soothing.
One Vet had his radio on, a breadbox size off white electric 1970′s clock radio, that was tuned to a local Country Music station, in a second nearly every man was singing along with faraway pained wet gazes, their postures resigned, the usual jocularity absent:


” Lord, I hope this day is good
I’m feelin’ empty and misunderstood
I should be thankful Lord, I know I should
But Lord, I hope this day is good
Lord, have you forgotten me
I’ve been prayin’ to you faithfully
I’m not sayin’ I’m a righteous man
But Lord, I hope you understand”

As I recall this, there are tears in my eyes; I will always remember these men, that rainy day and the song they sang which so epitomized their experience not only as patients at the VA hospital but also as United States Veterans.

              

               Aquila

November 10th, 2010


Non-Fiction

Weaveworld by Clive Barker

Brief Commentary followed by Review of "Weaveworld" by Clive Barker


A favorite story from 1987, and one I recommend for anyone who weaves stories, poems, music or any aural, visual or physical art. Now if only I can find a decent first edition I can afford! Until then I shall revisit my dog earred paperback copy from time to time.

 

From: http://www.clivebarker.com/html/visions/bib/book/books/weave.htm

Here is storytelling on a grand scale--the stuff of which a classic is made. Weaveworld begins with a rug--a wondrous, magnificent rug--into which a world has been woven. It is the world of the Seerkind, a people more ancient than man, who possesses raptures--the power to make magic. In the last century they were hunted down by an unspeakable horror known as the Scourge, and, threatened with annihilation, they worked their strongest raptures to weave themselves and their culture into a rug for safekeeping. Since then, the rug has been guarded by human caretakers.

The last of the caretakers has just died.

Vying for possession of the rug is a spectrum of unforgettable characters: Suzanna, granddaughter of the last caretaker, who feels the pull of the Weaveworld long before she knows the extent of her own powers; Calhoun Mooney, a pigeon-raising clerk who finds the world he's always dreamed of in a fleeting glimpse of the rug; Immacolata, an exiled Seerkind witch intent on destroying her race even if it means calling back the Scourge; and her sidekick, Shadwell, the Salesman, who will sell the Weaveworld to the highest bidder.

In the course of the novel the rug is unwoven, and we travel deep into the glorious raptures of the Weaveworld before we witness the final, cataclysmic struggle for its possession.

Barker takes us to places where we have seldom been in fiction--places terrifying and miraculous, humorous, and profound. With keen psychological insight and prodigious invention, his trademark graphic vision balanced by a spirit of transcendent promise, Barker explores the darkness and the light, the magical and the monstrous, and celebrates the triumph of the imagination.

Copyright 1987 by Clive Barker
Hardcover edition 1987 by Poseidon Press, a division of Simon and Schuster, Inc.

Fiction

Andromeda and Perseus By Ovidus

METMORPHOSES Book IV: 663 -764
 
 
Andromeda rescu'd from the Sea Monster



Andromeda (1929)  by Daniel Chester French



Now Aeolus had with strong chains confin'd,
And deep imprison'd e'vry blust'ring wind,
The rising Phospher with a purple light
Did sluggish mortals to new toils invite.
His feet again the valiant Perseus plumes,
And his keen sabre in his hand resumes:
Then nobly spurns the ground, and upwards springs,
And cuts the liquid air with sounding wings.
O'er various seas, and various lands he past,
'Till Aethiopia's shore appear'd at last.
Andromeda was there, doom'd to attone
By her own ruin follies not her own:
And if injustice in a God can be,
Such was the Libyan God's unjust decree.
Chain'd to a rock she stood; young Perseus stay'd
His rapid flight, to view the beauteous maid.
So sweet her frame, so exquisitely fine,
She seem'd a statue by a hand divine,
Had not the wind her waving tresses show'd,
And down her cheeks the melting sorrows flow'd.
Her faultless form the heroe's bosom fires;
The more he looks, the more he still admires.
Th' admirer almost had forgot to fly,
And swift descended, flutt'ring from on high.
O! Virgin, worthy no such chains to prove,
But pleasing chains in the soft folds of love;
Thy country, and thy name (he said) disclose,
And give a true rehearsal of thy woes.
A quick reply her bashfulness refus'd,
To the free converse of a man unus'd.
Her rising blushes had concealment found
From her spread hands, but that her hands were bound.
She acted to her full extent of pow'r,
And bath'd her face with a fresh, silent show'r.
But by degrees in innocence grown bold,
Her name, her country, and her birth she told:
And how she suffer'd for her mother's pride,
Who with the Nereids once in beauty vy'd.
Part yet untold, the seas began to roar,
And mounting billows tumbled to the shore.
Above the waves a monster rais'd his head,
His body o'er the deep was widely spread:
Onward he flounc'd; aloud the virgin cries;
Each parent to her shrieks in shrieks replies:
But she had deepest cause to rend the skies.
Weeping, to her they cling; no sign appears
Of help, they only lend their helpless tears.
Too long you vent your sorrows, Perseus said,
Short is the hour, and swift the time of aid,
In me the son of thund'ring Jove behold,
Got in a kindly show'r of fruitful gold.
Medusa's snaky head is now my prey,
And thro' the clouds I boldly wing my way.
If such desert be worthy of esteem,
And, if your daughter I from death redeem,
Shall she be mine? Shall it not then be thought,
A bride, so lovely, was too cheaply bought?
For her my arms I willingly employ,
If I may beauties, which I save, enjoy.
The parents eagerly the terms embrace:
For who would slight such terms in such a case?
Nor her alone they promise, but beside,
The dowry of a kingdom with the bride.
As well-rigg'd gallies, which slaves, sweating, row,
With their sharp beaks the whiten'd ocean plough;
So when the monster mov'd, still at his back
The furrow'd waters left a foamy track.
Now to the rock he was advanc'd so nigh,
Whirl'd from a sling a stone the space would fly.
Then bounding, upwards the brave Perseus sprung,
And in mid air on hov'ring pinions hung.
His shadow quickly floated on the main;
The monster could not his wild rage restrain,
But at the floating shadow leap'd in vain.
As when Jove's bird, a speckl'd serpent spies,
Which in the shine of Phoebus basking lies,
Unseen, he souses down, and bears away,
Truss'd from behind, the vainly-hissing prey.
To writh his neck the labour nought avails,
Too deep th' imperial talons pierce his scales.
Thus the wing'd heroe now descends, now soars,
And at his pleasure the vast monster gores.
Full in his back, swift stooping from above,
The crooked sabre to its hilt he drove.
The monster rag'd, impatient of the pain,
First bounded high, and then sunk low again.
Now, like a savage boar, when chaf'd with wounds,
And bay'd with opening mouths of hungry hounds,
He on the foe turns with collected might,
Who still eludes him with an airy flight;
And wheeling round, the scaly armour tries
Of his thick sides; his thinner tall now plies:
'Till from repeated strokes out gush'd a flood,
And the waves redden'd with the streaming blood.
At last the dropping wings, befoam'd all o'er,
With flaggy heaviness their master bore:
A rock he spy'd, whose humble head was low,
Bare at an ebb, but cover'd at a flow.
A ridgy hold, he, thither flying, gain'd,
And with one hand his bending weight sustain'd;
With th' other, vig'rous blows he dealt around,
And the home-thrusts the expiring monster own'd.
In deaf'ning shouts the glad applauses rise,
And peal on peal runs ratling thro' the skies.
The saviour-youth the royal pair confess,
And with heav'd hands their daughter's bridegroom bless.
The beauteous bride moves on, now loos'd from chains,
The cause, and sweet reward of all the heroe's pains,
Mean-time, on shore triumphant Perseus stood,
And purg'd his hands, smear'd with the monster's blood:
Then in the windings of a sandy bed
Compos'd Medusa's execrable head.
But to prevent the roughness, leafs he threw,
And young, green twigs, which soft in waters grew,
There soft, and full of sap; but here, when lay'd,
Touch'd by the head, that softness soon decay'd.
The wonted flexibility quite gone,
The tender scyons harden'd into stone.
Fresh, juicy twigs, surpriz'd, the Nereids brought,
Fresh, juicy twigs the same contagion caught.
The nymphs the petrifying seeds still keep,
And propagate the wonder thro' the deep.
The pliant sprays of coral yet declare
Their stiff'ning Nature, when expos'd to air.
Those sprays, which did, like bending osiers, move,
Snatch'd from their element, obdurate prove,
And shrubs beneath the waves, grow stones above.
The great immortals grateful Perseus prais'd,
And to three Pow'rs three turfy altars rais'd.
To Hermes this; and that he did assign
To Pallas: the mid honours, Jove, were thine,
He hastes for Pallas a white cow to cull,
A calf for Hermes, but for Jove a bull.
Then seiz'd the prize of his victorious fight,
Andromeda, and claim'd the nuptial rite.
Andromeda alone he greatly sought,
The dowry kingdom was not worth his thought.
Pleas'd Hymen now his golden torch displays;
With rich oblations fragrant altars blaze,
Sweet wreaths of choicest flow'rs are hung on high,
And cloudless pleasure smiles in ev'ry eye.
The melting musick melting thoughts inspires,
And warbling songsters aid the warbling lyres.
The palace opens wide in pompous state,
And by his peers surrounded, Cepheus sate.
A feast was serv'd, fit for a king to give,
And fit for God-like heroes to receive.
The banquet ended, the gay, chearful bowl
Mov'd round, and brighten'd, and enlarg'd each soul.
Then Perseus ask'd, what customs there obtain'd,
And by what laws the people were restrain'd.
Which told; the teller a like freedom takes,
And to the warrior his petition makes,
To know, what arts had won Medusa's snakes.



*This is a lovely translation I just happen to like composed under the direction of Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison, William Congreve and other eminent hands from 1713.
 
*Many years ago a friend of mine who knew of my fondness for this story gifted me with a large marble statue of Andromeda chained to a rock (same a posted image).
Andromeda and Perseus, slayer of Medusa, stayed married for their rest of their lives, when they died the Goddess Minerva placed them in the sky as constellations. They had six children and so blessed by Venus. Greek Historian Herodotus writes that the kings of Persia were descended from their firstborn son, Perses.