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." 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. [Footnote: It is evidently not our modern hyacinth
that is here described. It is perhaps some species of iris, or
perhaps of larkspur or of pansy.] And this was not enough for
Phoebus; but to confer still greater honor, 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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