Contents

Foreword

Introduction To Ovid

Book I

Book V

Book VI

Book X

Book XI

Book XV

Foreword

By Ben Potter

Ovid’s magnum opus was possibly the most ambitious project ever undertaken in the (then relatively young) history of world literature.

Written between 2-8AD, this mythological masterpiece became a rival to that instant classic of the Augustan age, Virgil’s Aeneid.

Not only was it even longer than Virgil’s epic, but thematically and stylistically it went above and beyond the scope of anything the Aeneid had managed.

To use this as a critique of Virgil would be quite unfair. He’d written his epic to stand as a Latin language rival to the Greek works of Homer, as well as to divinely sanction Rome’s supremacy as the world superpower and, by association, cover the emperor and his family in glory; Ovid had neither of these aims.

We’ve already touched upon Ovid’s ambivalence towards the Augustan ideal and, whilst every last stitch of Virgil’s epic is a thread in the tapestry of Augustan authority, in the Metamorphoses the supremacy of Rome is the focus of only two of its 15 books, and the splendour of Caesar and Augustus is merely a footnote taking up six of the story’s 400+ pages.

Of course a work entitled the Metamorphoses will immediately lead people into assuming that the work is primarily concerned with transformations, and indeed the 250-odd stories found therein provide us with a myriad of objects, gods, stars, people, animals and other organic matter changing to and from one another.

However, generally, these mutations are of secondary importance to the plot of the myths/stories themselves. Indeed, in some of the longer yarns one can almost forget that a metamorphosis will inevitably occur at the tale’s conclusion.

Whilst it would be foolish to deny change is an important theme, it is only one of many and occasionally feels crowbarred into an otherwise self-contained narrative.

Indeed, if one took out the transformations, but left in all the aspects of Ovid’s favourite topic, love and sexuality, then the poem would read much better than should the opposite omission be made.

And although numerous other themes recur: divine desire, ego and wrath; human passion, hubris and weakness; greed, violence, art, tyranny, nature, war, and etiology (the origin of things), it is love and lust in all their forms: divine and human, evil and pure, requited and not, forbidden and not, forced and not (open any random page and you will never be too far from a rape), that dominate proceedings.

Ovid himself claims that transformations are the topic of his work, but only in the context of world history: “Now I shall tell of things that change, new being out of old: since you, O Gods, created mutable arts and gifts, give me the voice to tell the shifting story of the world from its beginning to the present hour.”

The fact that Ovid was stylistically (as well as thematically) more diverse than Virgil is evidenced by the fact that, just as there is a diversity of opinion as to the main topic of the piece, there is some literary discord as to the very genre of the Metamorphoses.

Instinctively one brands it an epic, and not without cause. It begins with an invocation, it is written in dactylic hexameter (as were the Iliad the Odyssey and the Aeneid), it is saturated with the marvellous and macabre machinations of the gods, it employs epithets/pseudonyms/nicknames in the manner of previous epics, and it is steeped in myth, heroism and fantastical history.

The major epic failing is that there is no central narrative around a protagonist: Achilles, Odysseus and Aeneas are clearly the focal points of the Iliad, Odyssey and Aeneid, respectively. However, a case can be made that indeed there is a ‘main character’ in the Metamorphoses: that mischievous, capricious and untameable boy-god, Cupid.

Although such an assertion is a bit of a reach, it doesn’t change (and may reinforce) the fact that Ovid’s rich and fertile style made him possibly the first renowned writer to really stimulate the juices of literary critics.

Even though the meter of his poetry maintains its epic pretensions, the narrative style flails and flits all over the place. The rich complexity of the piece is reflected in the views of differing Ovidian scholars:

“Ovid incorporates into his hybrid poem almost all ancient genres, including tragedy, comedy, history, philosophy, love poetry, didactic and pastoral” (Sara Myers).

“Ovid’s Metamorphoses is so strange and original a poem that its status as epic has often been denied” (Philip Hardie).

“It would be misguided to pin the label of any genre on the Metamorphoses” (G. Karl Galinsky).

Essentially, you’re free to make your own mind up regarding the genre, or decide that you don’t really care and simply enjoy the stories for what they are!

However, these metamorphoses of content are not done capriciously, or merely to reinforce the title of the piece, but are often used to toy with our expectations and lend scenes a comic lilt, especially where the gods are made to look rather foolish. As early as book I Ovid jumps at the chance to either ridicule (or put in ridiculous situations) the gods.

Apollo goes seamlessly from being an epic champion to an eroticised (though dangerous) buffoon. Likewise, in one of the sillier stories, Io is turned into a cow by Jupiter (in order to hide his relationship with her from Juno). She is held captive by the monstrous Argos, who has thus effectively become a cowherd. Mercury then adopts the guise of a goatherd and attacks Argos. The upshot of all this is that a supernatural being and an Olympian god are playing at peasants in order to claim possession of a cow so Jupiter may or may not have sex with it. Not exactly the stuff of highbrow heroism!

Though the year of the Metamorphoses completion and the year of Ovid’s exile coincide, most scholars dismiss the text as being in any way significant to the poet’s banishment.

That said, it is impossible to imagine, despite the poem’s final book, that the emperor would have taken any delight from Ovid’s violent and sexual indulgence, impiety and incorrigible impishness.

Indeed, in the poem’s closing lines (immediately after Ovid preordains the deification of Augustus) the writer claims his very own brand of ‘immortality’:

“As long as Rome is the Eternal City these lines shall echo from the lips of men, as long as poetry speaks truth on earth, that immortality is mine to wear”.

There is a theory that this is proof of Ovid’s prescience of his own exile, though it is not a popularly credible one.

This, along with other interesting and unusual departures from the norm, makes book XV stand out as one of true social commentary and context. For this reason, it has been included in our selection.

Here’s the full list of the selected chapters:

Book I – Containing stories of origin, evolution and destruction. Also, like book XV, it bookends and contextualises the work.

Book V – Containing the feats of Perseus who initiates what is probably the best battle scene in the entire text.

Book VI – Though it begins with a charming ‘just-so’ story, it descends into the work’s darkest and most brutal tale in the guise of Tereus, Procne and Philomela (a precursor to Game of Thrones in its violent cruelty).

Book XI – This begins with the beautiful end of Orpheus and goes on to an often neglected classical topic, the first Trojan War (the one before that of Achilles and Hector).

Book XV – Included so you can judge for yourself how genuine Ovid’s praise of the powers-that-be really was (it also contains a fascinating and unexpected treatise on animal rights).

This is, of course, only a small selection of the many wild and wonderful stories of the Metamorphoses. Stories that have not only given us the closest thing we have to an ancient encyclopaedia of mythology, but have influenced countless artists throughout the generations: Shakespeare, Chaucer, Picasso, Kafka, Rubens, Proust, Bernini, Milton, Titian and Dante are just a selection of those who owe a great debt to Ovid’s supreme accomplishment.

Indeed, Ovidian scholar A. D. Melville put it perfectly when he stated that: “It may be doubted whether any poem has had so great an influence on the literature and art of Western civilization as the Metamorphoses”.

And with those winged words ringing in your ears we shall lave you to get on with the important business of seeing what all the fuss is about; we hope it will be enough to whet your appetite for more of the same!

Introduction To Ovid

By Ben Potter

“Listen Posterity, and find out who this ‘I’ was, this playful poet of tender passions you read. Sulmo’s my native place, rich in icy streams, and ninety miles distant from the City.” (Tristia IV.X)

The abovementioned ‘City’ is, of course, Rome and the ‘playful poet’ is Publius Ovidius Naso, better known as Ovid.

This excerpt comes from one of the greatest gifts an ancient writer ever bestowed upon a modern classicist as they are a mine of autobiographical information about the great man.

Through his elegiac verse we learn he is of an ancient lineage (though he dismisses that such things are of any importance) and equestrian rank. He received a first rate education culminating in that oft-trodden, aristocratic gap-year, the Grand Tour of Greece.

Despite his father’s pressure for him to go to the bar, Ovid never had the thirst or guile for such a career and subsumed himself in the arts.

His brother, a natural orator, died aged twenty meaning that Ovid alone bore, but rejected, the familial expectation to forge a political career.

In his own words he “shunned ambition’s cares” despite having a brief and successful stint as a minor state official.

He went on to become one of those very few members of the ancient literary world whose work is of such weight and import that it pervades through each and every age, making the very fame of the scribe pre-eminent even before his own poetry.

Not that this makes him a Conrad, Kafka, Dostoyevsky or Joyce like figure; one whom people would rather talk about than actually read. Indeed, he is considered the most pleasurable and approachable of the three canonic Augustan poets; the other two being Virgil and Horace.

Historically, there was much debate as to whether this is the company in which he should be placed. This is principally because Virgil and Horace cemented their fame during the triumvirate, the period of tinderbox tension between the assassination of Gaius Julius Caesar (43BC) and the war between Octavian (later Augustus) and Mark Antony (32BC).

Having been born only 370 days after the assassination of Caesar, Ovid’s infant cries were never heard by Romans living through the true days of the Republic.

The liminal Rome of Ovid’s was one that was either fermenting with barely controlled wrath or erupting into open conflict. However, by the age of 12, that had all finished. From his teenage years onwards Ovid’s homeland would never again be under serious threat from either internal or external foes.

An age of peace had arrived, but not any old peace; a Pax Augusta.

The fact that he had never truly known a Republican Rome, or a Rome in imminent danger of self-destruction, might be one reason why Ovid was, at one time, linked to the younger imperial poets Lucan, Martial and Statius rather elder scribes like Virgil, Horace, Tibullus and Propertius.

Though the latter group had, unlike Ovid, witnessed the transition between democratic oligarchy and imperial dictatorship; between perpetual chaos and seemingly everlasting peace, poetically, thematically and in terms of gravity, he is right at home in their company.

Not that Ovid was an obsequious yes-man looking to cover the new boss of the empire in glory. Indeed, this, more than his date of birth, is perhaps what distinguishes him from Virgil and Horace.

This is perhaps a bit harsh on the two senior scribblers as a strong argument can be made that they were more than happy with the new state of governmental affairs after decades of seemingly perpetual civil strife. However, their sustained laudation of Augustus as well as the pure, pastoral and peaceful lifestyle he championed contrasts sharply with the essence of an Ovidian idyll.

To be polite, one might call Ovid’s own version of utopia ‘romantic’.

Though the relative lubriciousness of his private life is both unknown and unknowable (though a popular topic in freshman tutorials the world over), there is no doubt that his poetical works espouse a sexual position the (outwardly) prim and pious new emperor would not have taken kindly to.

Though Ovid’s Amores (20BC), with its tales of burning passion, love available for barter and failed trysts, started his career off lightly enough, it was a precursor to more controversial works.

The Heroides, a collection of letters from famous, mythological females to their erstwhile lovers similarly simmers with barely concealed eroticism.

From here Ovid takes on a whimsical and parodic detour with a poem advising women on skincare techniques, though this is only a segue to the most important work of his life, the Ars Amatoria, The Art of Love.

The three-book poem is basically a manual on seduction techniques. And, though he alludes to some myths, this is no abstract or allegorical guide, but a very clear and direct treatise in which the poet declares himself praeceptor amoris, ‘teacher of love’.

Books one, two and three give advice to men on where and how to pick up women, advice to men on keeping a lover, and advice to women on techniques of seduction, respectively.

Though there has been some speculation as the role of Ovid the narrator as a literary device (i.e. the voice in the poem is not truly that of the man), it is commonly accepted that sex and sexuality were of great importance to a man living through an age of moralism and prudishness.

At least that was the Augustan ideal for the age, an ideal undermined by his own daughter and granddaughter who both suffered serious consequences for their wanton behaviour.

So how could Ovid survive, even thrive, in such an environment? Well, he couldn’t. Not in Rome at least.

In 8AD he was banished (though not exiled, the difference being he kept his property) from Rome to the Black Sea backwater of Tomis.

Though the Art of Love would undoubtedly have enraged the emperor, it is a puzzle that 9 years elapsed between its publication and Ovid’s exile.

Ovid again proves our best source on his own life.

Though he usually refers to the cause of his banishment obliquely, he does tell us it was because of a ‘camen et error’, for a poem and a mistake.

The carmen is universally accepted to be the Ars Amatoria (though the Remedia Amoris of 1AD deals with similar topics), the error is one of the greatest sources for Classical academic speculation there has ever been.

Theories posited range from that Ovid was aware of a plot against Augustus, but kept quiet about it, to that he was a witness to (or participant in) a sexual scandal involving a member of the imperial household.

No explanation is fully satisfactory or has any convincing evidence to back it up. However, all are more convincing than a popular theory of the 1920s that he was never exiled at all and he merely used the character of a lonely exile in Tomis as a literary device.

Despite his own protestations to the contrary, exile did not seem to diminish his creative output. His extant exile work includes Ibis (Ibis), Tristia (Sorrows) and Epistulae ex Ponto (Letters From the Black Sea). The latter two works contain a good deal of entreaties to friends to plead for his recall to Rome, as well as poems directly addressing the emperor himself in the same theme. Some are truly heart-rending in their vivid evocation of a lonely exile who is desperate to see his homeland one more time.

Ovid never did. He died the ignominious death of a lonely outcast. Though he outlived Augustus, the emperor’s successor, Tiberius, proved equally intransigent to the poet’s implorations.

Of his other extant works, two have gone unmentioned.

The first, Fasti (The Festivals), still one of our best sources about the festivals of ancient Rome, was only half finished upon his death. In all likelihood his exile prevented him from accessing the necessary records which he needed to complete his research for such a grand project.

The other was completed and remains, to this very day, one of the seminal works of world literature: the Metamorphoses.

Book I

Ovid begins Metamorphoses the way any decent piece of epic literature ought to begin. He invokes the gods and prays that they might inspire his work, which opens with the creation of the universe and continues to the current day.

As suggested by the title, Ovid intends to focus on the transformations of the world as well as the wild and wonderful tales littered throughout classical mythology.

Ovid begins by describing the birth of the universe. A creator separated the heavens from the earth, the land from the water. Animals are born onto land, fish to the seas, birds to the sky, and the heavens are strewn with gods and stars.

Ovid continues with a series of tales regarding the transformations of mortals, often at the hands of the promiscuous gods. Notably, Ovid tells how Jupiter, hoping to hide his extra-marital affairs from his wife, Juno, transforms his newest mortal conquest, Io, into a cow.

Ovid is at his best here, when he depicts the all-powerful gods in such a buffoonish and unflattering manner. It makes for entertaining, not to mention amusing, reading.

The creation of the world

Of bodies chang’d to various forms, I sing:

Ye Gods, from whom these miracles did spring,

Inspire my numbers with coelestial heat;

‘Till I my long laborious work compleat:

And add perpetual tenour to my rhimes,

Deduc’d from Nature’s birth, to Caesar’s times.

Before the seas, and this terrestrial ball,

And Heav’n’s high canopy, that covers all,

One was the face of Nature; if a face:

Rather a rude and indigested mass:

A lifeless lump, unfashion’d, and unfram’d,

Of jarring seeds; and justly Chaos nam’d.

No sun was lighted up, the world to view;

No moon did yet her blunted horns renew:

Nor yet was Earth suspended in the sky,

Nor pois’d, did on her own foundations lye:

Nor seas about the shores their arms had thrown;

But earth, and air, and water, were in one.

Thus air was void of light, and earth unstable,

And water’s dark abyss unnavigable.

No certain form on any was imprest;

All were confus’d, and each disturb’d the rest.

For hot and cold were in one body fixt;

And soft with hard, and light with heavy mixt.

But God, or Nature, while they thus contend,

To these intestine discords put an end:

Then earth from air, and seas from earth were driv’n,

And grosser air sunk from aetherial Heav’n.

Thus disembroil’d, they take their proper place;

The next of kin, contiguously embrace;

And foes are sunder’d, by a larger space.

The force of fire ascended first on high,

And took its dwelling in the vaulted sky:

Then air succeeds, in lightness next to fire;

Whose atoms from unactive earth retire.

Earth sinks beneath, and draws a num’rous throng

Of pondrous, thick, unwieldy seeds along.

About her coasts, unruly waters roar;

And rising, on a ridge, insult the shore.

Thus when the God, whatever God was he,

Had form’d the whole, and made the parts agree,

That no unequal portions might be found,

He moulded Earth into a spacious round:

Then with a breath, he gave the winds to blow;

And bad the congregated waters flow.

He adds the running springs, and standing lakes;

And bounding banks for winding rivers makes.

Some part, in Earth are swallow’d up, the most

In ample oceans, disembogu’d, are lost.

He shades the woods, the vallies he restrains

With rocky mountains, and extends the plains.

And as five zones th’ aetherial regions bind,

Five, correspondent, are to Earth assign’d:

The sun with rays, directly darting down,

Fires all beneath, and fries the middle zone:

The two beneath the distant poles, complain

Of endless winter, and perpetual rain.

Betwixt th’ extreams, two happier climates hold

The temper that partakes of hot, and cold.

The fields of liquid air, inclosing all,

Surround the compass of this earthly ball:

The lighter parts lye next the fires above;

The grosser near the watry surface move:

Thick clouds are spread, and storms engender there,

And thunder’s voice, which wretched mortals fear,

And winds that on their wings cold winter bear.

Nor were those blustring brethren left at large,

On seas, and shores, their fury to discharge:

Bound as they are, and circumscrib’d in place,

They rend the world, resistless, where they pass;

And mighty marks of mischief leave behind;

Such is the rage of their tempestuous kind.

First Eurus to the rising morn is sent

(The regions of the balmy continent);

And Eastern realms, where early Persians run,

To greet the blest appearance of the sun.

Westward, the wanton Zephyr wings his flight;

Pleas’d with the remnants of departing light:

Fierce Boreas, with his off-spring, issues forth

T’ invade the frozen waggon of the North.

While frowning Auster seeks the Southern sphere;

And rots, with endless rain, th’ unwholsom year.

High o’er the clouds, and empty realms of wind,

The God a clearer space for Heav’n design’d;

Where fields of light, and liquid aether flow;

Purg’d from the pondrous dregs of Earth below.

Scarce had the Pow’r distinguish’d these, when streight

The stars, no longer overlaid with weight,

Exert their heads, from underneath the mass;

And upward shoot, and kindle as they pass,

And with diffusive light adorn their heav’nly place.

Then, every void of Nature to supply,

With forms of Gods he fills the vacant sky:

New herds of beasts he sends, the plains to share:

New colonies of birds, to people air:

And to their oozy beds, the finny fish repair.

A creature of a more exalted kind

Was wanting yet, and then was Man design’d:

Conscious of thought, of more capacious breast,

For empire form’d, and fit to rule the rest:

Whether with particles of heav’nly fire

The God of Nature did his soul inspire,

Or Earth, but new divided from the sky,

And, pliant, still retain’d th’ aetherial energy:

Which wise Prometheus temper’d into paste,

And, mixt with living streams, the godlike image cast.

Thus, while the mute creation downward bend

Their sight, and to their earthly mother tend,

Man looks aloft; and with erected eyes

Beholds his own hereditary skies.

From such rude principles our form began;

And earth was metamorphos’d into Man.

The Golden Age

The golden age was first; when Man yet new,

No rule but uncorrupted reason knew:

And, with a native bent, did good pursue.

Unforc’d by punishment, un-aw’d by fear,

His words were simple, and his soul sincere;

Needless was written law, where none opprest:

The law of Man was written in his breast:

No suppliant crowds before the judge appear’d,

No court erected yet, nor cause was heard:

But all was safe, for conscience was their guard.

The mountain-trees in distant prospect please,

E’re yet the pine descended to the seas:

E’re sails were spread, new oceans to explore:

And happy mortals, unconcern’d for more,

Confin’d their wishes to their native shore.

No walls were yet; nor fence, nor mote, nor mound,

Nor drum was heard, nor trumpet’s angry sound:

Nor swords were forg’d; but void of care and crime,

The soft creation slept away their time.

The teeming Earth, yet guiltless of the plough,

And unprovok’d, did fruitful stores allow:

Content with food, which Nature freely bred,

On wildings and on strawberries they fed;

Cornels and bramble-berries gave the rest,

And falling acorns furnish’d out a feast.

The flow’rs unsown, in fields and meadows reign’d:

And Western winds immortal spring maintain’d.

In following years, the bearded corn ensu’d

From Earth unask’d, nor was that Earth renew’d.

From veins of vallies, milk and nectar broke;

And honey sweating through the pores of oak.

The Silver Age

But when good Saturn, banish’d from above,

Was driv’n to Hell, the world was under Jove.

Succeeding times a silver age behold,

Excelling brass, but more excell’d by gold.

Then summer, autumn, winter did appear:

And spring was but a season of the year.

The sun his annual course obliquely made,

Good days contracted, and enlarg’d the bad.

Then air with sultry heats began to glow;

The wings of winds were clogg’d with ice and snow;

And shivering mortals, into houses driv’n,

Sought shelter from th’ inclemency of Heav’n.

Those houses, then, were caves, or homely sheds;

With twining oziers fenc’d; and moss their beds.

Then ploughs, for seed, the fruitful furrows broke,

And oxen labour’d first beneath the yoke.

The Brazen Age

To this came next in course, the brazen age:

A warlike offspring, prompt to bloody rage,

Not impious yet…

The Iron Age

Hard steel succeeded then:

And stubborn as the metal, were the men.

Truth, modesty, and shame, the world forsook:

Fraud, avarice, and force, their places took.

Then sails were spread, to every wind that blew.

Raw were the sailors, and the depths were new:

Trees, rudely hollow’d, did the waves sustain;

E’re ships in triumph plough’d the watry plain.

Then land-marks limited to each his right:

For all before was common as the light.

Nor was the ground alone requir’d to bear

Her annual income to the crooked share,

But greedy mortals, rummaging her store,

Digg’d from her entrails first the precious oar;

Which next to Hell, the prudent Gods had laid;

And that alluring ill, to sight display’d.

Thus cursed steel, and more accursed gold,

Gave mischief birth, and made that mischief bold:

And double death did wretched Man invade,

By steel assaulted, and by gold betray’d,

Now (brandish’d weapons glittering in their hands)

Mankind is broken loose from moral bands;

No rights of hospitality remain:

The guest, by him who harbour’d him, is slain,

The son-in-law pursues the father’s life;

The wife her husband murders, he the wife.

The step-dame poyson for the son prepares;

The son inquires into his father’s years.

Faith flies, and piety in exile mourns;

And justice, here opprest, to Heav’n returns.

The Giant’s War

Nor were the Gods themselves more safe above;

Against beleaguer’d Heav’n the giants move.

Hills pil’d on hills, on mountains mountains lie,

To make their mad approaches to the skie.

‘Till Jove, no longer patient, took his time

T’ avenge with thunder their audacious crime:

Red light’ning plaid along the firmament,

And their demolish’d works to pieces rent.

Sing’d with the flames, and with the bolts transfixt,

With native Earth, their blood the monsters mixt;

The blood, indu’d with animating heat,

Did in th’ impregnant Earth new sons beget:

They, like the seed from which they sprung, accurst,

Against the Gods immortal hatred nurst,

An impious, arrogant, and cruel brood;

Expressing their original from blood.

Which when the king of Gods beheld from high

(Withal revolving in his memory,

What he himself had found on Earth of late,

Lycaon’s guilt, and his inhumane treat),

He sigh’d; nor longer with his pity strove;

But kindled to a wrath becoming Jove:

Then call’d a general council of the Gods;

Who summon’d, issue from their blest abodes,

And fill th’ assembly with a shining train.

A way there is, in Heav’n’s expanded plain,

Which, when the skies are clear, is seen below,

And mortals, by the name of Milky, know.

The ground-work is of stars; through which the road

Lyes open to the Thunderer’s abode:

The Gods of greater nations dwell around,

And, on the right and left, the palace bound;

The commons where they can: the nobler sort

With winding-doors wide open, front the court.

This place, as far as Earth with Heav’n may vie,

I dare to call the Louvre of the skie.

When all were plac’d, in seats distinctly known,

And he, their father, had assum’d the throne,

Upon his iv’ry sceptre first he leant,

Then shook his head, that shook the firmament:

Air, Earth, and seas, obey’d th’ almighty nod;

And, with a gen’ral fear, confess’d the God.

At length, with indignation, thus he broke

His awful silence, and the Pow’rs bespoke.

I was not more concern’d in that debate

Of empire, when our universal state

Was put to hazard, and the giant race

Our captive skies were ready to imbrace:

For tho’ the foe was fierce, the seeds of all

Rebellion, sprung from one original;

Now, wheresoever ambient waters glide,

All are corrupt, and all must be destroy’d.

Let me this holy protestation make,

By Hell, and Hell’s inviolable lake,

I try’d whatever in the godhead lay:

But gangren’d members must be lopt away,

Before the nobler parts are tainted to decay.

There dwells below, a race of demi-gods,

Of nymphs in waters, and of fawns in woods:

Who, tho’ not worthy yet, in Heav’n to live,

Let ‘em, at least, enjoy that Earth we give.

Can these be thought securely lodg’d below,

When I my self, who no superior know,

I, who have Heav’n and Earth at my command,

Have been attempted by Lycaon’s hand?

At this a murmur through the synod went,

And with one voice they vote his punishment.

Thus, when conspiring traytors dar’d to doom

The fall of Caesar, and in him of Rome,

The nations trembled with a pious fear;

All anxious for their earthly Thunderer:

Nor was their care, o Caesar, less esteem’d

By thee, than that of Heav’n for Jove was deem’d:

Who with his hand, and voice, did first restrain

Their murmurs, then resum’d his speech again.

The Gods to silence were compos’d, and sate

With reverence, due to his superior state.

Cancel your pious cares; already he

Has paid his debt to justice, and to me.

Yet what his crimes, and what my judgments were,

Remains for me thus briefly to declare.

The clamours of this vile degenerate age,

The cries of orphans, and th’ oppressor’s rage,

Had reach’d the stars: I will descend, said I,

In hope to prove this loud complaint a lye.

Disguis’d in humane shape, I travell’d round

The world, and more than what I heard, I found.

O’er Maenalus I took my steepy way,

By caverns infamous for beasts of prey:

Then cross’d Cyllene, and the piny shade

More infamous, by curst Lycaon made:

Dark night had cover’d Heaven, and Earth, before

I enter’d his unhospitable door.

Just at my entrance, I display’d the sign

That somewhat was approaching of divine.

The prostrate people pray; the tyrant grins;

And, adding prophanation to his sins,

I’ll try, said he, and if a God appear,

To prove his deity shall cost him dear.

‘Twas late; the graceless wretch my death prepares,

When I shou’d soundly sleep, opprest with cares:

This dire experiment he chose, to prove

If I were mortal, or undoubted Jove:

But first he had resolv’d to taste my pow’r;

Not long before, but in a luckless hour,

Some legates, sent from the Molossian state,

Were on a peaceful errand come to treat:

Of these he murders one, he boils the flesh;

And lays the mangled morsels in a dish:

Some part he roasts; then serves it up, so drest,

And bids me welcome to this humane feast.

Mov’d with disdain, the table I o’er-turn’d;

And with avenging flames, the palace burn’d.

The tyrant in a fright, for shelter gains

The neighb’ring fields, and scours along the plains.

Howling he fled, and fain he wou’d have spoke;

But humane voice his brutal tongue forsook.

About his lips the gather’d foam he churns,

And, breathing slaughters, still with rage he burns,

But on the bleating flock his fury turns.

His mantle, now his hide, with rugged hairs

Cleaves to his back; a famish’d face he bears;

His arms descend, his shoulders sink away

To multiply his legs for chase of prey.

He grows a wolf, his hoariness remains,

And the same rage in other members reigns.

His eyes still sparkle in a narr’wer space:

His jaws retain the grin, and violence of his face

This was a single ruin, but not one

Deserves so just a punishment alone.

Mankind’s a monster, and th’ ungodly times

Confed’rate into guilt, are sworn to crimes.

All are alike involv’d in ill, and all

Must by the same relentless fury fall.

Thus ended he; the greater Gods assent;

By clamours urging his severe intent;

The less fill up the cry for punishment.

Yet still with pity they remember Man;

And mourn as much as heav’nly spirits can.

They ask, when those were lost of humane birth,

What he wou’d do with all this waste of Earth:

If his dispeopl’d world he would resign

To beasts, a mute, and more ignoble line;

Neglected altars must no longer smoke,

If none were left to worship, and invoke.

To whom the Father of the Gods reply’d,

Lay that unnecessary fear aside:

Mine be the care, new people to provide.

I will from wondrous principles ordain

A race unlike the first, and try my skill again.

Already had he toss’d the flaming brand;

And roll’d the thunder in his spacious hand;

Preparing to discharge on seas and land:

But stopt, for fear, thus violently driv’n,

The sparks should catch his axle-tree of Heav’n.

Remembring in the fates, a time when fire

Shou’d to the battlements of Heaven aspire,

And all his blazing worlds above shou’d burn;

And all th’ inferior globe to cinders turn.

His dire artill’ry thus dismist, he bent

His thoughts to some securer punishment:

Concludes to pour a watry deluge down;

And what he durst not burn, resolves to drown.

The northern breath, that freezes floods, he binds;

With all the race of cloud-dispelling winds:

The south he loos’d, who night and horror brings;

And foggs are shaken from his flaggy wings.

From his divided beard two streams he pours,

His head, and rheumy eyes distill in show’rs,

With rain his robe, and heavy mantle flow:

And lazy mists are lowring on his brow;

Still as he swept along, with his clench’d fist

He squeez’d the clouds, th’ imprison’d clouds resist:

The skies, from pole to pole, with peals resound;

And show’rs inlarg’d, come pouring on the ground.

Then, clad in colours of a various dye,

Junonian Iris breeds a new supply

To feed the clouds: impetuous rain descends;

The bearded corn beneath the burden bends:

Defrauded clowns deplore their perish’d grain;

And the long labours of the year are vain.

Nor from his patrimonial Heaven alone

Is Jove content to pour his vengeance down;

Aid from his brother of the seas he craves,

To help him with auxiliary waves.

The watry tyrant calls his brooks and floods,

Who rowl from mossie caves (their moist abodes);

And with perpetual urns his palace fill:

To whom in brief, he thus imparts his will.

Small exhortation needs; your pow’rs employ:

And this bad world, so Jove requires, destroy.

Let loose the reins to all your watry store:

Bear down the damms, and open ev’ry door.

The floods, by Nature enemies to land,

And proudly swelling with their new command,

Remove the living stones, that stopt their way,

And gushing from their source, augment the sea.

Then, with his mace, their monarch struck the ground;

With inward trembling Earth receiv’d the wound;

And rising streams a ready passage found.

Th’ expanded waters gather on the plain:

They float the fields, and over-top the grain;

Then rushing onwards, with a sweepy sway,

Bear flocks, and folds, and lab’ring hinds away.

Nor safe their dwellings were, for, sap’d by floods,

Their houses fell upon their houshold Gods.

The solid piles, too strongly built to fall,

High o’er their heads, behold a watry wall:

Now seas and Earth were in confusion lost;

A world of waters, and without a coast.

One climbs a cliff; one in his boat is born:

And ploughs above, where late he sow’d his corn.

Others o’er chimney-tops and turrets row,

And drop their anchors on the meads below:

Or downward driv’n, they bruise the tender vine,

Or tost aloft, are knock’d against a pine.

And where of late the kids had cropt the grass,

The monsters of the deep now take their place.

Insulting Nereids on the cities ride,

And wond’ring dolphins o’er the palace glide.

On leaves, and masts of mighty oaks they brouze;

And their broad fins entangle in the boughs.

The frighted wolf now swims amongst the sheep;

The yellow lion wanders in the deep:

His rapid force no longer helps the boar:

The stag swims faster, than he ran before.

The fowls, long beating on their wings in vain,

Despair of land, and drop into the main.

Now hills, and vales no more distinction know;

And levell’d Nature lies oppress’d below.

The most of mortals perish in the flood:

The small remainder dies for want of food.

A mountain of stupendous height there stands

Betwixt th’ Athenian and Boeotian lands,

The bound of fruitful fields, while fields they were,

But then a field of waters did appear:

Parnassus is its name; whose forky rise

Mounts thro’ the clouds, and mates the lofty skies.

High on the summit of this dubious cliff,

Deucalion wafting, moor’d his little skiff.

He with his wife were only left behind

Of perish’d Man; they two were human kind.

The mountain nymphs, and Themis they adore,

And from her oracles relief implore.

The most upright of mortal men was he;

The most sincere, and holy woman, she.

When Jupiter, surveying Earth from high,

Beheld it in a lake of water lie,

That where so many millions lately liv’d,

But two, the best of either sex, surviv’d;

He loos’d the northern wind; fierce Boreas flies

To puff away the clouds, and purge the skies:

Serenely, while he blows, the vapours driv’n,

Discover Heav’n to Earth, and Earth to Heav’n.

The billows fall, while Neptune lays his mace

On the rough sea, and smooths its furrow’d face.

Already Triton, at his call, appears

Above the waves; a Tyrian robe he wears;

And in his hand a crooked trumpet bears.

The soveraign bids him peaceful sounds inspire,

And give the waves the signal to retire.

His writhen shell he takes; whose narrow vent

Grows by degrees into a large extent,

Then gives it breath; the blast with doubling sound,

Runs the wide circuit of the world around:

The sun first heard it, in his early east,

And met the rattling ecchos in the west.

The waters, listning to the trumpet’s roar,

Obey the summons, and forsake the shore.

A thin circumference of land appears;

And Earth, but not at once, her visage rears,

And peeps upon the seas from upper grounds;

The streams, but just contain’d within their bounds,

By slow degrees into their channels crawl;

And Earth increases, as the waters fall.

In longer time the tops of trees appear,

Which mud on their dishonour’d branches bear.

At length the world was all restor’d to view;

But desolate, and of a sickly hue:

Nature beheld her self, and stood aghast,

A dismal desart, and a silent waste.

Which when Deucalion, with a piteous look

Beheld, he wept, and thus to Pyrrha spoke:

Oh wife, oh sister, oh of all thy kind

The best, and only creature left behind,

By kindred, love, and now by dangers joyn’d;

Of multitudes, who breath’d the common air,

We two remain; a species in a pair:

The rest the seas have swallow’d; nor have we

Ev’n of this wretched life a certainty.

The clouds are still above; and, while I speak,

A second deluge o’er our heads may break.

Shou’d I be snatcht from hence, and thou remain,

Without relief, or partner of thy pain,

How cou’dst thou such a wretched life sustain?

Shou’d I be left, and thou be lost, the sea

That bury’d her I lov’d, shou’d bury me.

Oh cou’d our father his old arts inspire,

And make me heir of his informing fire,

That so I might abolisht Man retrieve,

And perisht people in new souls might live.

But Heav’n is pleas’d, nor ought we to complain,

That we, th’ examples of mankind, remain.

He said; the careful couple joyn their tears:

And then invoke the Gods, with pious prayers.

Thus, in devotion having eas’d their grief,

From sacred oracles they seek relief;

And to Cephysus’ brook their way pursue:

The stream was troubled, but the ford they knew;

With living waters, in the fountain bred,

They sprinkle first their garments, and their head,

Then took the way, which to the temple led.

The roofs were all defil’d with moss, and mire,

The desart altars void of solemn fire.

Before the gradual, prostrate they ador’d;

The pavement kiss’d; and thus the saint implor’d.

O righteous Themis, if the Pow’rs above

By pray’rs are bent to pity, and to love;

If humane miseries can move their mind;

If yet they can forgive, and yet be kind;

Tell how we may restore, by second birth,

Mankind, and people desolated Earth.

Then thus the gracious Goddess, nodding, said;

Depart, and with your vestments veil your head:

And stooping lowly down, with losen’d zones,

Throw each behind your backs, your mighty mother’s bones.

Amaz’d the pair, and mute with wonder stand,

‘Till Pyrrha first refus’d the dire command.

Forbid it Heav’n, said she, that I shou’d tear

Those holy reliques from the sepulcher.

They ponder’d the mysterious words again,

For some new sense; and long they sought in vain:

At length Deucalion clear’d his cloudy brow,

And said, the dark Aenigma will allow

A meaning, which, if well I understand,

From sacrilege will free the God’s command:

This Earth our mighty mother is, the stones

In her capacious body, are her bones:

These we must cast behind. With hope, and fear,

The woman did the new solution hear:

The man diffides in his own augury,

And doubts the Gods; yet both resolve to try.

Descending from the mount, they first unbind

Their vests, and veil’d, they cast the stones behind:

The stones (a miracle to mortal view,

But long tradition makes it pass for true)

Did first the rigour of their kind expel,

And suppled into softness, as they fell;

Then swell’d, and swelling, by degrees grew warm;

And took the rudiments of human form.

Imperfect shapes: in marble such are seen,

When the rude chizzel does the man begin;

While yet the roughness of the stone remains,

Without the rising muscles, and the veins.

The sappy parts, and next resembling juice,

Were turn’d to moisture, for the body’s use:

Supplying humours, blood, and nourishment;

The rest, too solid to receive a bent,

Converts to bones; and what was once a vein,

Its former name and Nature did retain.

By help of pow’r divine, in little space,

What the man threw, assum’d a manly face;

And what the wife, renew’d the female race.

Hence we derive our nature; born to bear

Laborious life; and harden’d into care.

The rest of animals, from teeming Earth

Produc’d, in various forms receiv’d their birth.

The native moisture, in its close retreat,

Digested by the sun’s aetherial heat,

As in a kindly womb, began to breed:

Then swell’d, and quicken’d by the vital seed.

And some in less, and some in longer space,

Were ripen’d into form, and took a sev’ral face.

Thus when the Nile from Pharian fields is fled,

And seeks, with ebbing tides, his ancient bed,

The fat manure with heav’nly fire is warm’d;

And crusted creatures, as in wombs, are form’d;

These, when they turn the glebe, the peasants find;

Some rude, and yet unfinish’d in their kind:

Short of their limbs, a lame imperfect birth:

One half alive; and one of lifeless earth.

For heat, and moisture, when in bodies join’d,

The temper that results from either kind

Conception makes; and fighting ‘till they mix,

Their mingled atoms in each other fix.

Thus Nature’s hand the genial bed prepares

With friendly discord, and with fruitful wars.

From hence the surface of the ground, with mud

And slime besmear’d (the faeces of the flood),

Receiv’d the rays of Heav’n: and sucking in

The seeds of heat, new creatures did begin:

Some were of sev’ral sorts produc’d before,

But of new monsters, Earth created more.

Unwillingly, but yet she brought to light

Thee, Python too, the wondring world to fright,

And the new nations, with so dire a sight:

So monstrous was his bulk, so large a space

Did his vast body, and long train embrace.

Whom Phoebus basking on a bank espy’d;

E’re now the God his arrows had not try’d

But on the trembling deer, or mountain goat;

At this new quarry he prepares to shoot.

Though ev’ry shaft took place, he spent the store

Of his full quiver; and ‘twas long before

Th’ expiring serpent wallow’d in his gore.

Then, to preserve the fame of such a deed,

For Python slain, he Pythian games decred.

Where noble youths for mastership shou’d strive,

To quoit, to run, and steeds, and chariots drive.

The prize was fame: in witness of renown

An oaken garland did the victor crown.

The laurel was not yet for triumphs born;

But every green alike by Phoebus worn,

Did, with promiscuous grace, his flowing locks adorn.

The Transformation of Daphne into a Lawrel

The first and fairest of his loves, was she

Whom not blind fortune, but the dire decree

Of angry Cupid forc’d him to desire:

Daphne her name, and Peneus was her sire.

Swell’d with the pride, that new success attends,

He sees the stripling, while his bow he bends,

And thus insults him: Thou lascivious boy,

Are arms like these for children to employ?

Know, such atchievements are my proper claim;

Due to my vigour, and unerring aim:

Resistless are my shafts, and Python late

In such a feather’d death, has found his fate.

Take up the torch (and lay my weapons by),

With that the feeble souls of lovers fry.

To whom the son of Venus thus reply’d,

Phoebus, thy shafts are sure on all beside,

But mine of Phoebus, mine the fame shall be

Of all thy conquests, when I conquer thee.

He said, and soaring, swiftly wing’d his flight:

Nor stopt but on Parnassus’ airy height.

Two diff’rent shafts he from his quiver draws;

One to repel desire, and one to cause.

One shaft is pointed with refulgent gold:

To bribe the love, and make the lover bold:

One blunt, and tipt with lead, whose base allay

Provokes disdain, and drives desire away.

The blunted bolt against the nymph he drest:

But with the sharp transfixt Apollo’s breast.

Th’ enamour’d deity pursues the chace;

The scornful damsel shuns his loath’d embrace:

In hunting beasts of prey, her youth employs;

And Phoebe rivals in her rural joys.

With naked neck she goes, and shoulders bare;

And with a fillet binds her flowing hair.

By many suitors sought, she mocks their pains,

And still her vow’d virginity maintains.

Impatient of a yoke, the name of bride

She shuns, and hates the joys, she never try’d.

On wilds, and woods, she fixes her desire:

Nor knows what youth, and kindly love, inspire.

Her father chides her oft: Thou ow’st, says he,

A husband to thy self, a son to me.

She, like a crime, abhors the nuptial bed:

She glows with blushes, and she hangs her head.

Then casting round his neck her tender arms,

Sooths him with blandishments, and filial charms:

Give me, my Lord, she said, to live, and die,

A spotless maid, without the marriage tye.

‘Tis but a small request; I beg no more

Than what Diana’s father gave before.

The good old sire was soften’d to consent;

But said her wish wou’d prove her punishment:

For so much youth, and so much beauty join’d,

Oppos’d the state, which her desires design’d.

The God of light, aspiring to her bed,

Hopes what he seeks, with flattering fancies fed;

And is, by his own oracles, mis-led.

And as in empty fields the stubble burns,

Or nightly travellers, when day returns,

Their useless torches on dry hedges throw,

That catch the flames, and kindle all the row;

So burns the God, consuming in desire,

And feeding in his breast a fruitless fire:

Her well-turn’d neck he view’d (her neck was bare)

And on her shoulders her dishevel’d hair;

Oh were it comb’d, said he, with what a grace

Wou’d every waving curl become her face!

He view’d her eyes, like heav’nly lamps that shone,

He view’d her lips, too sweet to view alone,

Her taper fingers, and her panting breast;

He praises all he sees, and for the rest

Believes the beauties yet unseen are best:

Swift as the wind, the damsel fled away,

Nor did for these alluring speeches stay:

Stay Nymph, he cry’d, I follow, not a foe.

Thus from the lyon trips the trembling doe;

Thus from the wolf the frighten’d lamb removes,

And, from pursuing faulcons, fearful doves;

Thou shunn’st a God, and shunn’st a God, that loves.

Ah, lest some thorn shou’d pierce thy tender foot,

Or thou shou’dst fall in flying my pursuit!

To sharp uneven ways thy steps decline;

Abate thy speed, and I will bate of mine.

Yet think from whom thou dost so rashly fly;

Nor basely born, nor shepherd’s swain am I.

Perhaps thou know’st not my superior state;

And from that ignorance proceeds thy hate.

Me Claros, Delphi, Tenedos obey;

These hands the Patareian scepter sway.

The King of Gods begot me: what shall be,

Or is, or ever was, in Fate, I see.

Mine is th’ invention of the charming lyre;

Sweet notes, and heav’nly numbers, I inspire.

Sure is my bow, unerring is my dart;

But ah! more deadly his, who pierc’d my heart.

Med’cine is mine; what herbs and simples grow

In fields, and forrests, all their pow’rs I know;

And am the great physician call’d, below.

Alas that fields and forrests can afford.

No remedies to heal their love-sick lord!

To cure the pains of love, no plant avails:

And his own physick, the physician falls.

She heard not half; so furiously she flies;

And on her ear th’ imperfect accent dies,

Fear gave her wings; and as she fled, the wind

Increasing, spread her flowing hair behind;

And left her legs and thighs expos’d to view:

Which made the God more eager to pursue.

The God was young, and was too hotly bent

To lose his time in empty compliment:

But led by love, and fir’d with such a sight,

Impetuously pursu’d his near delight.

As when th’ impatient greyhound slipt from far,

Bounds o’er the glebe to course the fearful hare,

She in her speed does all her safety lay;

And he with double speed pursues the prey;

O’er-runs her at the sitting turn, and licks

His chaps in vain, and blows upon the flix:

She scapes, and for the neighb’ring covert strives,

And gaining shelter, doubts if yet she lives:

If little things with great we may compare,

Such was the God, and such the flying fair,

She urg’d by fear, her feet did swiftly move,

But he more swiftly, who was urg’d by love.

He gathers ground upon her in the chace:

Now breathes upon her hair, with nearer pace;

And just is fast’ning on the wish’d embrace.

The nymph grew pale, and in a mortal fright,

Spent with the labour of so long a flight;

And now despairing, cast a mournful look

Upon the streams of her paternal brook;

Oh help, she cry’d, in this extreamest need!

If water Gods are deities indeed:

Gape Earth, and this unhappy wretch intomb;

Or change my form, whence all my sorrows come.

Scarce had she finish’d, when her feet she found

Benumb’d with cold, and fasten’d to the ground:

A filmy rind about her body grows;

Her hair to leaves, her arms extend to boughs:

The nymph is all into a lawrel gone;

The smoothness of her skin remains alone.

Yet Phoebus loves her still, and casting round

Her bole, his arms, some little warmth he found.

The tree still panted in th’ unfinish’d part:

Not wholly vegetive, and heav’d her heart.

He fixt his lips upon the trembling rind;

It swerv’d aside, and his embrace declin’d.

To whom the God, Because thou canst not be

My mistress, I espouse thee for my tree:

Be thou the prize of honour, and renown;

The deathless poet, and the poem, crown.

Thou shalt the Roman festivals adorn,

And, after poets, be by victors worn.

Thou shalt returning Caesar’s triumph grace;

When pomps shall in a long procession pass.

Wreath’d on the posts before his palace wait;

And be the sacred guardian of the gate.

Secure from thunder, and unharm’d by Jove,

Unfading as th’ immortal Pow’rs above:

And as the locks of Phoebus are unshorn,

So shall perpetual green thy boughs adorn.

The grateful tree was pleas’d with what he said;

And shook the shady honours of her head.

The Transformation of Io into a Heyfer

An ancient forest in Thessalia grows;

Which Tempe’s pleasing valley does inclose:

Through this the rapid Peneus take his course;

From Pindus rolling with impetuous force;

Mists from the river’s mighty fall arise:

And deadly damps inclose the cloudy skies:

Perpetual fogs are hanging o’er the wood;

And sounds of waters deaf the neighbourhood.

Deep, in a rocky cave, he makes abode

(A mansion proper for a mourning God).

Here he gives audience; issuing out decrees

To rivers, his dependant deities.

On this occasion hither they resort;

To pay their homage, and to make their court.

All doubtful, whether to congratulate

His daughter’s honour, or lament her fate.

Sperchaeus, crown’d with poplar, first appears;

Then old Apidanus came crown’d with years:

Enipeus turbulent, Amphrysos tame;

And Aeas last with lagging waters came.

Then, of his kindred brooks, a num’rous throng

Condole his loss; and bring their urns along.

Not one was wanting of the wat’ry train,

That fill’d his flood, or mingled with the main:

But Inachus, who in his cave, alone,

Wept not another’s losses, but his own,

For his dear Io, whether stray’d, or dead,

To him uncertain, doubtful tears he shed.

He sought her through the world; but sought in vain;

And no where finding, rather fear’d her slain.

Her, just returning from her father’s brook,

Jove had beheld, with a desiring look:

And, Oh fair daughter of the flood, he said,

Worthy alone of Jove’s imperial bed,

Happy whoever shall those charms possess;

The king of Gods (nor is thy lover less)

Invites thee to yon cooler shades; to shun

The scorching rays of the meridian sun.

Nor shalt thou tempt the dangers of the grove

Alone, without a guide; thy guide is Jove.

No puny Pow’r, but he whose high command

Is unconfin’d, who rules the seas and land;

And tempers thunder in his awful hand,

Oh fly not: for she fled from his embrace

O’er Lerna’s pastures: he pursu’d the chace

Along the shades of the Lyrcaean plain;

At length the God, who never asks in vain,

Involv’d with vapours, imitating night,

Both Air, and Earth; and then suppress’d her flight,

And mingling force with love, enjoy’d the full delight.

Mean-time the jealous Juno, from on high,

Survey’d the fruitful fields of Arcady;

And wonder’d that the mist shou’d over-run

The face of day-light, and obscure the sun.

No nat’ral cause she found, from brooks, or bogs,

Or marshy lowlands, to produce the fogs;

Then round the skies she sought for Jupiter,

Her faithless husband; but no Jove was there:

Suspecting now the worst, Or I, she said,

Am much mistaken, or am much betray’d.

With fury she precipitates her flight:

Dispels the shadows of dissembled night;

And to the day restores his native light.

Th’ Almighty Leacher, careful to prevent

The consequence, foreseeing her descent,

Transforms his mistress in a trice; and now

In Io’s place appears a lovely cow.

So sleek her skin, so faultless was her make,

Ev’n Juno did unwilling pleasure take

To see so fair a rival of her love;

And what she was, and whence, enquir’d of Jove:

Of what fair herd, and from what pedigree?

The God, half caught, was forc’d upon a lye:

And said she sprung from Earth. She took the word,

And begg’d the beauteous heyfer of her lord.

What should he do? ‘twas equal shame to Jove

Or to relinquish, or betray his love:

Yet to refuse so slight a gift, wou’d be

But more t’ increase his consort’s jealousie:

Thus fear, and love, by turns, his heart assail’d;

And stronger love had sure, at length, prevail’d:

But some faint hope remain’d, his jealous queen

Had not the mistress through the heyfer seen.

The cautious Goddess, of her gift possest,

Yet harbour’d anxious thoughts within her breast;

As she who knew the falshood of her Jove;

And justly fear’d some new relapse of love.

Which to prevent, and to secure her care,

To trusty Argus she commits the fair.

The head of Argus (as with stars the skies)

Was compass’d round, and wore an hundred eyes.

But two by turns their lids in slumber steep;

The rest on duty still their station keep;

Nor cou’d the total constellation sleep.

Thus, ever present, to his eyes, and mind,

His charge was still before him, tho’ behind.

In fields he suffer’d her to feed by Day,

But when the setting sun to night gave way,

The captive cow he summon’d with a call;

And drove her back, and ty’d her to the stall.

On leaves of trees, and bitter herbs she fed,

Heav’n was her canopy, bare earth her bed:

So hardly lodg’d, and to digest her food,

She drank from troubled streams, defil’d with mud.

Her woeful story fain she wou’d have told,

With hands upheld, but had no hands to hold.

Her head to her ungentle keeper bow’d,

She strove to speak, she spoke not, but she low’d:

Affrighted with the noise, she look’d around,

And seem’d t’ inquire the author of the sound.

Once on the banks where often she had play’d

(Her father’s banks), she came, and there survey’d

Her alter’d visage, and her branching head;

And starting, from her self she wou’d have fled.

Her fellow nymphs, familiar to her eyes,

Beheld, but knew her not in this disguise.

Ev’n Inachus himself was ignorant;

And in his daughter, did his daughter want.

She follow’d where her fellows went, as she

Were still a partner of the company:

They stroak her neck; the gentle heyfer stands,

And her neck offers to their stroaking hands.

Her father gave her grass; the grass she took;

And lick’d his palms, and cast a piteous look;

And in the language of her eyes, she spoke.

She wou’d have told her name, and ask’d relief,

But wanting words, in tears she tells her grief.

Which, with her foot she makes him understand;

And prints the name of Io in the sand.

Ah wretched me! her mournful father cry’d;

She, with a sigh, to wretched me reply’d:

About her milk-white neck, his arms he threw;

And wept, and then these tender words ensue.

And art thou she, whom I have sought around

The world, and have at length so sadly found?

So found, is worse than lost: with mutual words

Thou answer’st not, no voice thy tongue affords:

But sighs are deeply drawn from out thy breast;

And speech deny’d, by lowing is express’d.

Unknowing, I prepar’d thy bridal bed;

With empty hopes of happy issue fed.

But now the husband of a herd must be

Thy mate, and bell’wing sons thy progeny.

Oh, were I mortal, death might bring relief:

But now my God-head but extends my grief:

Prolongs my woes, of which no end I see,

And makes me curse my immortality!

More had he said, but fearful of her stay,

The starry guardian drove his charge away,

To some fresh pasture; on a hilly height

He sate himself, and kept her still in sight.

The Eyes of Argus transform’d into a Peacock’s Train

Now Jove no longer cou’d her suff’rings bear;

But call’d in haste his airy messenger,

The son of Maia, with severe decree

To kill the keeper, and to set her free.

With all his harness soon the God was sped,

His flying hat was fastned on his head,

Wings on his heels were hung, and in his hand

He holds the vertue of the snaky wand.

The liquid air his moving pinions wound,

And, in the moment, shoot him on the ground.

Before he came in sight, the crafty God

His wings dismiss’d, but still retain’d his rod:

That sleep-procuring wand wise Hermes took,

But made it seem to sight a sherpherd’s hook.

With this, he did a herd of goats controul;

Which by the way he met, and slily stole.

Clad like a country swain, he pip’d, and sung;

And playing, drove his jolly troop along.

With pleasure, Argus the musician heeds;

But wonders much at those new vocal reeds.

And whosoe’er thou art, my friend, said he,

Up hither drive thy goats, and play by me:

This hill has browz for them, and shade for thee.

The God, who was with ease induc’d to climb,

Began discourse to pass away the time;

And still betwixt, his tuneful pipe he plies;

And watch’d his hour, to close the keeper’s eyes.

With much ado, he partly kept awake;

Not suff’ring all his eyes repose to take:

And ask’d the stranger, who did reeds invent,

And whence began so rare an instrument?

The Transformation of Syrinx into Reeds

Then Hermes thus: A nymph of late there was

Whose heav’nly form her fellows did surpass.

The pride and joy of fair Arcadia’s plains,

Belov’d by deities, ador’d by swains:

Syrinx her name, by Sylvans oft pursu’d,

As oft she did the lustful Gods delude:

The rural, and the woodland Pow’rs disdain’d;

With Cynthia hunted, and her rites maintain’d:

Like Phoebe clad, even Phoebe’s self she seems,

So tall, so streight, such well-proportion’d limbs:

The nicest eye did no distinction know,

But that the goddess bore a golden bow:

Distinguish’d thus, the sight she cheated too.

Descending from Lycaeus, Pan admires

The matchless nymph, and burns with new desires.

A crown of pine upon his head he wore;

And thus began her pity to implore.

But e’er he thus began, she took her flight

So swift, she was already out of sight.

Nor stay’d to hear the courtship of the God;

But bent her course to Ladon’s gentle flood:

There by the river stopt, and tir’d before;

Relief from water nymphs her pray’rs implore.

Now while the lustful God, with speedy pace,

Just thought to strain her in a strict embrace,

He fill’d his arms with reeds, new rising on the place.

And while he sighs, his ill success to find,

The tender canes were shaken by the wind;

And breath’d a mournful air, unheard before;

That much surprizing Pan, yet pleas’d him more.

Admiring this new musick, Thou, he said,

Who canst not be the partner of my bed,

At least shall be the confort of my mind:

And often, often to my lips be joyn’d.

He form’d the reeds, proportion’d as they are,

Unequal in their length, and wax’d with care,

They still retain the name of his ungrateful fair.

While Hermes pip’d, and sung, and told his tale,

The keeper’s winking eyes began to fail,

And drowsie slumber on the lids to creep;

‘Till all the watchman was at length asleep.

Then soon the God his voice, and song supprest;

And with his pow’rful rod confirm’d his rest:

Without delay his crooked faulchion drew,

And at one fatal stroke the keeper slew.

Down from the rock fell the dissever’d head,

Opening its eyes in death; and falling, bled;

And mark’d the passage with a crimson trail:

Thus Argus lies in pieces, cold, and pale;

And all his hundred eyes, with all their light,

Are clos’d at once, in one perpetual night.

These Juno takes, that they no more may fail,

And spreads them in her peacock’s gaudy tail.

Impatient to revenge her injur’d bed,

She wreaks her anger on her rival’s head;

With Furies frights her from her native home;

And drives her gadding, round the world to roam:

Nor ceas’d her madness, and her flight, before

She touch’d the limits of the Pharian shore.

At length, arriving on the banks of Nile,

Wearied with length of ways, and worn with toil,

She laid her down; and leaning on her knees,

Invok’d the cause of all her miseries:

And cast her languishing regards above,

For help from Heav’n, and her ungrateful Jove.

She sigh’d, she wept, she low’d; ‘twas all she cou’d;

And with unkindness seem’d to tax the God.

Last, with an humble pray’r, she beg’d repose,

Or death at least, to finish all her woes.

Jove heard her vows, and with a flatt’ring look,

In her behalf to jealous Juno spoke,

He cast his arms about her neck, and said,

Dame, rest secure; no more thy nuptial bed

This nymph shall violate; by Styx I swear,

And every oath that binds the Thunderer.

The Goddess was appeas’d; and at the word

Was Io to her former shape restor’d.

The rugged hair began to fall away;

The sweetness of her eyes did only stay,

Tho’ not so large; her crooked horns decrease;

The wideness of her jaws and nostrils cease:

Her hoofs to hands return, in little space:

The five long taper fingers take their place,

And nothing of the heyfer now is seen,

Beside the native whiteness of the skin.

Erected on her feet she walks again:

And two the duty of the four sustain.

She tries her tongue; her silence softly breaks,

And fears her former lowings when she speaks:

A Goddess now, through all th’ Aegyptian State:

And serv’d by priests, who in white linnen wait.

Her son was Epaphus, at length believ’d

The son of Jove, and as a God receiv’d;

With sacrifice ador’d, and publick pray’rs,

He common temples with his mother shares.

Equal in years, and rival in renown

With Epaphus, the youthful Phaeton

Like honour claims; and boasts his sire the sun.

His haughty looks, and his assuming air,

The son of Isis could no longer bear:

Thou tak’st thy mother’s word too far, said he,

And hast usurp’d thy boasted pedigree.

Go, base pretender to a borrow’d name.

Thus tax’d, he blush’d with anger, and with shame;

But shame repress’d his rage: the daunted youth

Soon seeks his mother, and enquires the truth:

Mother, said he, this infamy was thrown

By Epaphus on you, and me your son.

He spoke in publick, told it to my face;

Nor durst I vindicate the dire disgrace:

Even I, the bold, the sensible of wrong,

Restrain’d by shame, was forc’d to hold my tongue.

To hear an open slander, is a curse:

But not to find an answer, is a worse.

If I am Heav’n-begot, assert your son

By some sure sign; and make my father known,

To right my honour, and redeem your own.

He said, and saying cast his arms about

Her neck, and beg’d her to resolve the doubt.

‘Tis hard to judge if Clymene were mov’d

More by his pray’r, whom she so dearly lov’d,

Or more with fury fir’d, to find her name

Traduc’d, and made the sport of common fame.

She stretch’d her arms to Heav’n, and fix’d her eyes

On that fair planet that adorns the skies;

Now by those beams, said she, whose holy fires

Consume my breast, and kindle my desires;

By him, who sees us both, and clears our sight,

By him, the publick minister of light,

I swear that Sun begot thee; if I lye,

Let him his chearful influence deny:

Let him no more this perjur’d creature see;

And shine on all the world but only me.

If still you doubt your mother’s innocence,

His eastern mansion is not far from hence;

With little pains you to his Leve go,

And from himself your parentage may know.

With joy th’ ambitious youth his mother heard,

And eager, for the journey soon prepar’d.

He longs the world beneath him to survey;

To guide the chariot; and to give the day:

From Meroe’s burning sands he bends his course,

Nor less in India feels his father’s force:

His travel urging, till he came in sight;

And saw the palace by the purple light.

Book V

Book V of Metamorphoses is full of battles—but they don’t all involve swords and bloodshed. In fact, it’s Ovid’s treatment of two different kinds of battle—a messy battle of steel and a battle of epic poetry—that proves a battle’s worth is not always in the amount of bloodshed but in the prowess and wisdom demonstrated during the fight.

The book begins with a recounting of Phineas’s attack on Perseus. Phineas, angered that his former fiance, Andromeda, had been given to Perseus in marriage (and not lightly—Perseus won Andromeda by saving her from a sea monster), storms the wedding banquet with hundreds of armed men.

What follows is a messy combat that at times comes close to resembling slapstick comedy. Men slip and fall on the bloody floor, spears continually miss their marks, one man even misses his target, shatters his sword against marble, and is pitifully injured when a ricocheting piece of steel embeds itself in his neck. And, after all this, Perseus simply puts down his sword and turns his opponents to stone with Medusa’s head, in a fate that Ovid calls “below the dignity of verse.”

This scene is juxtaposed by a battle of epic poetry described by the Muses to the visiting Minerva. When the Muses and Minerva are interrupted by the sound of chattering magpies, the Muses explain that the birds had once been the nine daughters of Pierus, who challenged the Muses to a contest of song and were turned into magpies for acting snobbishly even after they lost.

The description of this battle is treated with a great deal of seriousness, and truly emphasizes the technical skill and sophistication of Calliope, the Muse of epic poetry. Her song is over three hundred lines long (where the song of the Perides is only thirteen), and her choice of subject—Dis’s rape and kidnap of Proserpina—shows a good knowledge of her audience, as the contest is being judged by nymphs, who were often raped.

The slapstick quality of the physical battle, compared to the gravity accorded to the contest of epic poetry, makes this book of the Metamorphoses, in a way, about the importance of storytelling—of poetry—and affords Ovid the opportunity to show off his own incredible technical skill.

The Story of Perseus

While Perseus entertain’d with this report

His father Cepheus, and the list’ning court,

Within the palace walls was heard aloud

The roaring noise of some unruly crowd;

Not like the songs which chearful friends prepare

For nuptial days, but sounds that threaten’d war;

And all the pleasures of this happy feast,

To tumult turn’d, in wild disorder ceas’d:

So, when the sea is calm, we often find

A storm rais’d sudden by some furious wind.

Chief in the riot Phineus first appear’d,

The rash ringleader of this boist’rous herd,

And brandishing his brazen-pointed lance,

Behold, he said, an injur’d man advance,

Stung with resentment for his ravish’d wife,

Nor shall thy wings, o Perseus, save thy life;

Nor Jove himself; tho’ we’ve been often told

Who got thee in the form of tempting gold.

His lance was aim’d, when Cepheus ran, and said,

Hold, brother, hold; what brutal rage has made

Your frantick mind so black a crime conceive?

Are these the thanks that you to Perseus give?

This the reward that to his worth you pay,

Whose timely valour sav’d Andromeda?

Nor was it he, if you would reason right,

That forc’d her from you, but the jealous spight

Of envious Nereids, and Jove’s high decree;

And that devouring monster of the sea,

That ready with his jaws wide gaping stood

To eat my child, the fairest of my blood.

You lost her then, when she seem’d past relief,

And wish’d perhaps her death, to ease your grief

With my afflictions: not content to view

Andromeda in chains, unhelp’d by you,

Her spouse, and uncle; will you grieve that he

Expos’d his life the dying maid to free?

And shall you claim his merit? Had you thought

Her charms so great, you shou’d have bravely sought

That blessing on the rocks, where fix’d she lay:

But now let Perseus bear his prize away,

By service gain’d, by promis’d faith possess’d;

To him I owe it, that my age is bless’d

Still with a child: Nor think that I prefer

Perseus to thee, but to the loss of her.

Phineus on him, and Perseus, roul’d about

His eyes in silent rage, and seem’d to doubt

Which to destroy; ‘till, resolute at length,

He threw his spear with the redoubled strength

His fury gave him, and at Perseus struck;

But missing Perseus, in his seat it stuck.

Who, springing nimbly up, return’d the dart,

And almost plung’d it in his rival’s heart;

But he for safety to the altar ran,

Unfit protection for so vile a man;

Yet was the stroke not vain, as Rhaetus found,

Who in his brow receiv’d a mortal wound;

Headlong he tumbled, when his skull was broke,

From which his friends the fatal weapon took,

While he lay trembling, and his gushing blood

In crimson streams around the table flow’d.

But this provok’d th’ unruly rabble worse,

They flung their darts, and some in loud discourse

To death young Perseus, and the monarch doom;

But Cepheus left before the guilty room,

With grief appealing to the Gods above,

Who laws of hospitality approve,

Who faith protect, and succour injur’d right,

That he was guiltless of this barb’rous fight.

Pallas her brother Perseus close attends,

And with her ample shield from harm defends,

Raising a sprightly courage in his heart:

But Indian Athis took the weaker part,

Born in the chrystal grottoes of the sea,

Limnate’s son, a fenny nymph, and she

Daughter of Ganges; graceful was his mein,

His person lovely, and his age sixteen.

His habit made his native beauty more;

A purple mantle fring’d with gold he wore;

His neck well-turn’d with golden chains was grac’d,

His hair with myrrh perfum’d, was nicely dress’d.

Tho’ with just aim he cou’d the javelin throw,

Yet with more skill he drew the bending bow;

And now was drawing it with artful hand,

When Perseus snatching up a flaming brand,

Whirl’d sudden at his face the burning wood,

Crush’d his eyes in, and quench’d the fire with blood;

Thro’ the soft skin the splinter’d bones appear,

And spoil’d the face that lately was so fair.

When Lycabas his Athis thus beheld,

How was his heart with friendly horror fill’d!

A youth so noble, to his soul so dear,

To see his shapeless look, his dying groans to hear!

He snatch’d the bow the boy was us’d to bend,

And cry’d, With me, false traytor, dare contend;

Boast not a conquest o’er a child, but try

Thy strength with me, who all thy pow’rs defy;

Nor think so mean an act a victory.

While yet he spoke he flung the whizzing dart,

Which pierc’d the plaited robe, but miss’d his heart:

Perseus defy’d, upon him fiercely press’d

With sword, unsheath’d, and plung’d it in his breast;

His eyes o’erwhelm’d with night, he stumbling falls,

And with his latest breath on Athis calls;

Pleas’d that so near the lovely youth he lies,

He sinks his head upon his friend, and dies.

Next eager Phorbas, old Methion’s son,

Came rushing forward with Amphimedon;

When the smooth pavement, slippery made with gore,

Trip’d up their feet, and flung ‘em on the floor;

The sword of Perseus, who by chance was nigh,

Prevents their rise, and where they fall, they lye:

Full in his ribs Amphimedon he smote,

And then stuck fiery Phorbas in the throat.

Eurythus lifting up his ax, the blow

Was thus prevented by his nimble foe;

A golden cup he seizes, high embost,

And at his head the massy goblet tost:

It hits, and from his forehead bruis’d rebounds,

And blood, and brains he vomits from his wounds;

With his slain fellows on the floor he lies,

And death for ever shuts his swimming eyes.

Then Polydaemon fell, a Goddess-born;

Phlegias, and Elycen with locks unshorn

Next follow’d; next, the stroke of death he gave

To Clytus, Abanis, and Lycetus brave;

While o’er unnumber’d heaps of ghastly dead,

The Argive heroe’s feet triumphant tread.

But Phineus stands aloof, and dreads to feel

His rival’s force, and flies his pointed steel:

Yet threw a dart from far; by chance it lights

On Idas, who for neither party fights;

But wounded, sternly thus to Phineus said,

Since of a neuter thou a foe hast made,

This I return thee, drawing from his side

The dart; which, as he strove to fling, he dy’d.

Odites fell by Clymenus’s sword,

The Cephen court had not a greater lord.

Hypseus his blade does in Protenor sheath,

But brave Lyncides soon reveng’d his death.

Here too was old Emathion, one that fear’d

The Gods, and in the cause of Heav’n appear’d,

Who only wishing the success of right,

And, by his age, exempted from the fight,

Both sides alike condemns: This impious war

Cease, cease, he cries; these bloody broils forbear.

This scarce the sage with high concern had said,

When Chromis at a blow struck off his head,

Which dropping, on the royal altar roul’d,

Still staring on the crowd with aspect bold;

And still it seem’d their horrid strife to blame,

In life and death, his pious zeal the same;

While clinging to the horns, the trunk expires,

The sever’d head consumes amidst the fires.

Then Phineus, who from far his javelin threw,

Broteas and Ammon, twins and brothers, slew;

For knotted gauntlets matchless in the field;

But gauntlets must to swords and javelins yield.

Ampycus next, with hallow’d fillets bound,

As Ceres’ priest, and with a mitre crown’d,

His spear transfix’d, and struck him to the ground.

O Iapetides, with pain I tell

How you, sweet lyrist, in the riot fell;

What worse than brutal rage his breast could fill,

Who did thy blood, o bard celestial! spill?

Kindly you press’d amid the princely throng,

To crown the feast, and give the nuptial song:

Discord abhorr’d the musick of thy lyre,

Whose notes did gentle peace so well inspire;

Thee, when fierce Pettalus far off espy’d,

Defenceless with thy harp, he scoffing cry’d,

Go; to the ghosts thy soothing lessons play;

We loath thy lyre, and scorn thy peaceful lay:

And, as again he fiercely bid him go,

He pierc’d his temples with a mortal blow.

His harp he held, tho’ sinking on the ground,

Whose strings in death his trembling fingers found

By chance, and tun’d by chance a dying sound.

With grief Lycormas saw him fall, from far,

And, wresting from the door a massy bar,

Full in his poll lays on a load of knocks,

Which stun him, and he falls like a devoted ox.

Another bar Pelates would have snach’d,

But Corynthus his motions slily watch’d;

He darts his weapon from a private stand,

And rivets to the post his veiny hand:

When strait a missive spear transfix’d his side,

By Abas thrown, and as he hung, he dy’d.

Melaneus on the prince’s side was slain;

And Dorylas, who own’d a fertile plain,

Of Nasamonia’s fields the wealthy lord,

Whose crowded barns, could scarce contain their board.

A whizzing spear obliquely gave a blow,

Stuck in his groin, and pierc’d the nerves below;

His foe behld his eyes convulsive roul,

His ebbing veins, and his departing soul;

Then taunting said, Of all thy spacious plain,

This spot thy only property remains.

He left him thus; but had no sooner left,

Than Perseus in revenge his nostrils cleft;

From his friend’s breast the murd’ring dart he drew,

And the same weapon at the murderer threw;

His head in halves the darted javelin cut,

And on each side the brain came issuing out.

Fortune his friend, in deaths around he deals,

And this his lance, and that his faulchion feels:

Now Clytius dies; and by a diff’rent wound,

The twin, his brother Clanis, bites the ground.

In his rent jaw the bearded weapon sticks,

And the steel’d dart does Clytius’ thigh transfix.

With these Mendesian Celadon he slew:

And Astreus next, whose mother was a Jew,

His sire uncertain: then by Perseus fell

Aethion, who cou’d things to come foretell;

But now he knows not whence the javelin flies

That wounds his breast, nor by whose arm he dies.

The squire to Phineus next his valour try’d,

And fierce Agyrtes stain’d with paricide.

As these are slain, fresh numbers still appear,

And wage with Perseus an unequal war;

To rob him of his right, the maid he won,

By honour, promise, and desert his own.

With him, the father of the beauteous bride,

The mother, and the frighted virgin side;

With shrieks, and doleful cries they rend the air:

Their shrieks confounded with the din of war,

With dashing arms, and groanings of the slain,

They grieve unpitied, and unheard complain.

The floor with ruddy streams Bellona stains,

And Phineus a new war with double rage maintains.

Perseus begirt, from all around they pour

Their lances on him, a tempestuous show’r,

Aim’d all at him; a cloud of darts, and spears,

Or blind his eyes, or whistle round his ears.

Their numbers to resist, against the wall

He guards his back secure, and dares them all.

Here from the left Molpeus renews the fight,

And bold Ethemon presses on the right:

As when a hungry tyger near him hears

Two lowing herds, a-while he both forbears;

Nor can his hopes of this, or that renounce,

So strong he lusts to prey on both at once;

Thus Perseus now with that, or this is loth

To war distinct:, but fain would fall on both.

And first Chaonian Molpeus felt his blow,

And fled, and never after fac’d his foe;

Then fierce Ethemon, as he turn’d his back,

Hurried with fury, aiming at his neck,

His brandish’d sword against the marble struck

With all his might; the brittle weapon broke,

And in his throat the point rebounding stuck.

Too slight the wound for life to issue thence,

And yet too great for battel, or defence;

His arms extended in this piteous state,

For mercy he wou’d sue, but sues too late;

Perseus has in his bosom plung’d the sword,

And, ere he speaks, the wound prevents the word.

The crowds encreasing, and his friends distress’d,

Himself by warring multitudes oppress’d:

Since thus unequally you fight, ‘tis time,

He cry’d, to punish your presumptuous crime;

Beware, my friends; his friends were soon prepar’d,

Their sight averting, high the head he rear’d,

And Gorgon on his foes severely star’d.

Vain shift! says Thescelus, with aspect bold,

Thee, and thy bugbear monster, I behold

With scorn; he lifts his arm, but ere he threw

The dart, the heroe to a statue grew.

In the same posture still the marble stands,

And holds the warrior’s weapons in its hands.

Amphyx, whom yet this wonder can’t alarm,

Heaves at Lyncides’ breast his impious arm;

But, while thus daringly he presses on,

His weapon and his arm are turn’d to stone.

Next Nileus, he who vainly said he ow’d

His origin to Nile’s prolifick flood;

Who on his shield seven silver rivers bore,

His birth to witness by the arms he wore;

Full of his sev’n-fold father, thus express’d

His boast to Perseus, and his pride confess’d:

See whence we sprung; let this thy comfort be

In thy sure death, that thou didst die by me.

While yet he spoke, the dying accents hung

In sounds imperfect on his marble tongue;

Tho’ chang’d to stone, his lips he seem’d to stretch,

And thro’ th’ insensate rock wou’d force a speech.

This Eryx saw, but seeing wou’d not own;

The mischief by your selves, he cries, is done,

‘Tis your cold courage turns your hearts to stone.

Come, follow me; fall on the stripling boy,

Kill him, and you his magick arms destroy.

Then rushing on, his arm to strike he rear’d,

And marbled o’er his varied frame appear’d.

These for affronting Pallas were chastis’d,

And justly met the death they had despis’d.

But brave Aconteus, Perseus’ friend, by chance

Look’d back, and met the Gorgon’s fatal glance:

A statue now become, he ghastly stares,

And still the foe to mortal combat dares.

Astyages the living likeness knew,

On the dead stone with vengeful fury flew;

But impotent his rage, the jarring blade

No print upon the solid marble made:

Again, as with redoubled might he struck,

Himself astonish’d in the quarry stuck.

The vulgar deaths ‘twere tedious to rehearse,

And fates below the dignity of verse;

Their safety in their flight two hundred found,

Two hundred, by Medusa’s head were ston’d.

Fierce Phineus now repents the wrongful fight,

And views his varied friends, a dreadful sight;

He knows their faces, for their help he sues,

And thinks, not hearing him, that they refuse:

By name he begs their succour, one by one,

Then doubts their life, and feels the friendly stone.

Struck with remorse, and conscious of his pride,

Convict of sin, he turn’d his eyes aside;

With suppliant mein to Perseus thus he prays,

Hence with the head, as far as winds and seas

Can bear thee; hence, o quit the Cephen shore,

And never curse us with Medusa more,

That horrid head, which stiffens into stone

Those impious men who, daring death, look on.

I warr’d not with thee out of hate or strife,

My honest cause was to defend my wife,

First pledg’d to me; what crime cou’d I suppose,

To arm my friends, and vindicate my spouse?

But vain, too late I see, was our design;

Mine was the title, but the merit thine.

Contending made me guilty, I confess;

But penitence shou’d make that guilt the less:

‘Twas thine to conquer by Minerva’s pow’r;

Favour’d of Heav’n, thy mercy I implore;

For life I sue; the rest to thee I yield;

In pity, from my sight remove the shield.

He suing said; nor durst revert his eyes

On the grim head: and Perseus thus replies:

Coward, what is in me to grant, I will,

Nor blood, unworthy of my valour spill:

Fear not to perish by my vengeful sword,

From that secure; ‘tis all the Fates afford.

Where I now see thee, thou shalt still be seen,

A lasting monument to please our queen;

There still shall thy betroth’d behold her spouse,

And find his image in her father’s house.

This said; where Phineus turn’d to shun the shield

Full in his face the staring head he held;

As here and there he strove to turn aside,

The wonder wrought, the man was petrify’d:

All marble was his frame, his humid eyes

Drop’d tears, which hung upon the stone like ice.

In suppliant posture, with uplifted hands,

And fearful look, the guilty statue stands.

Hence Perseus to his native city hies,

Victorious, and rewarded with his prize.

Conquest, o’er Praetus the usurper, won,

He re-instates his grandsire in the throne.

Praetus, his brother dispossess’d by might,

His realm enjoy’d, and still detain’d his right:

But Perseus pull’d the haughty tyrant down,

And to the rightful king restor’d the throne.

Weak was th’ usurper, as his cause was wrong;

Where Gorgon’s head appears, what arms are strong?

When Perseus to his host the monster held,

They soon were statues, and their king expell’d.

Thence, to Seriphus with the head he sails,

Whose prince his story treats as idle tales:

Lord of a little isle, he scorns to seem

Too credulous, but laughs at that, and him.

Yet did he not so much suspect the truth,

As out of pride, or envy, hate the youth.

The Argive prince, at his contempt enrag’d,

To force his faith by fatal proof engag’d.

Friends, shut your eyes, he cries; his shield he takes,

And to the king expos’d Medusa’s snakes.

The monarch felt the pow’r he wou’d not own,

And stood convict of folly in the stone.

Minerva’s Interview with the Muses

Thus far Minerva was content to rove

With Perseus, offspring of her father Jove:

Now, hid in clouds, Seriphus she forsook;

And to the Theban tow’rs her journey took.

Cythnos and Gyaros lying to the right,

She pass’d unheeded in her eager flight;

And chusing first on Helicon to rest,

The virgin Muses in these words address’d:

Me, the strange tidings of a new-found spring,

Ye learned sisters, to this mountain bring.

If all be true that Fame’s wide rumours tell,

‘Twas Pegasus discover’d first your well;

Whose piercing hoof gave the soft earth a blow,

Which broke the surface where these waters flow.

I saw that horse by miracle obtain

Life, from the blood of dire Medusa slain;

And now, this equal prodigy to view,

From distant isles to fam’d Boeotia flew.

The Muse Urania said, Whatever cause

So great a Goddess to this mansion draws;

Our shades are happy with so bright a guest,

You, Queen, are welcome, and we Muses blest.

What Fame has publish’d of our spring is true,

Thanks for our spring to Pegasus are due.

Then, with becoming courtesy, she led

The curious stranger to their fountain’s head;

Who long survey’d, with wonder, and delight,

Their sacred water, charming to the sight;

Their ancient groves, dark grottos, shady bow’rs,

And smiling plains adorn’d with various flow’rs.

O happy Muses! she with rapture cry’d,

Who, safe from cares, on this fair hill reside;

Blest in your seat, and free your selves to please

With joys of study, and with glorious ease.

The Fate of Pyreneus

Then one replies: O Goddess, fit to guide

Our humble works, and in our choir preside,

Who sure wou’d wisely to these fields repair,

To taste our pleasures, and our labours share,

Were not your virtue, and superior mind

To higher arts, and nobler deeds inclin’d;

Justly you praise our works, and pleasing seat,

Which all might envy in this soft retreat,

Were we secur’d from dangers, and from harms;

But maids are frighten’d with the least alarms,

And none are safe in this licentious time;

Still fierce Pyreneus, and his daring crime,

With lasting horror strikes my feeble sight,

Nor is my mind recover’d from the fright.

With Thracian arms this bold usurper gain’d

Daulis, and Phocis, where he proudly reign’d:

It happen’d once, as thro’ his lands we went,

For the bright temple of Parnassus bent,

He met us there, and in his artful mind

Hiding the faithless action he design’d,

Confer’d on us (whom, oh! too well he knew)

All honours that to Goddesses are due.

Stop, stop, ye Muses, ‘tis your friend who calls,

The tyrant said; behold the rain that falls

On ev’ry side, and that ill-boding sky,

Whose lowring face portends more storms are nigh.

Pray make my house your own, and void of fear,

While this bad weather lasts, take shelter here.

Gods have made meaner places their resort,

And, for a cottage, left their shining court.

Oblig’d to stop, by the united force

Of pouring rains, and complaisant discourse,

His courteous invitation we obey,

And in his hall resolve a-while to stay.

Soon it clear’d up; the clouds began to fly,

The driving north refin’d the show’ry sky;

Then to pursue our journey we began:

But the false traitor to his portal ran,

Stopt our escape, the door securely barr’d,

And to our honour, violence prepar’d.

But we, transform’d to birds, avoid his snare,

On pinions rising in the yielding air.

But he, by lust and indignation fir’d,

Up to his highest tow’r with speed retir’d,

And cries, In vain you from my arms withdrew,

The way you go your lover will pursue.

Then, in a flying posture wildly plac’d,

And daring from that height himself to cast,

The wretch fell headlong, and the ground bestrew’d

With broken bones, and stains of guilty blood.

The Story of the Pierides

The Muse yet spoke; when they began to hear

A noise of wings that flutter’d in the air;

And strait a voice, from some high-spreading bough,

Seem’d to salute the company below.

The Goddess wonder’d, and inquir’d from whence

That tongue was heard, that spoke so plainly sense

(It seem’d to her a human voice to be,

But prov’d a bird’s; for in a shady tree

Nine magpies perch’d lament their alter’d state,

And, what they hear, are skilful to repeat).

The sister to the wondring Goddess said,

These, foil’d by us, by us were thus repaid.

These did Evippe of Paeonia bring

With nine hard labour-pangs to Pella’s king.

The foolish virgins of their number proud,

And puff’d with praises of the senseless crowd,

Thro’ all Achaia, and th’ Aemonian plains

Defy’d us thus, to match their artless strains;

No more, ye Thespian girls, your notes repeat,

Nor with false harmony the vulgar cheat;

In voice or skill, if you with us will vye,

As many we, in voice or skill will try.

Surrender you to us, if we excell,

Fam’d Aganippe, and Medusa’s well.

The conquest yours, your prize from us shall be

The Aemathian plains to snowy Paeone;

The nymphs our judges. To dispute the field,

We thought a shame; but greater shame to yield.

On seats of living stone the sisters sit,

And by the rivers swear to judge aright.

The Song of the Pierides

Then rises one of the presumptuous throng,

Steps rudely forth, and first begins the song;

With vain address describes the giants’ wars,

And to the Gods their fabled acts prefers.

She sings, from Earth’s dark womb how Typhon rose,

And struck with mortal fear his heav’nly foes.

How the Gods fled to Egypt’s slimy soil,

And hid their heads beneath the banks of Nile:

How Typhon, from the conquer’d skies, pursu’d

Their routed godheads to the sev’n-mouth’d flood;

Forc’d every God, his fury to escape,

Some beastly form to take, or earthly shape.

Jove (so she sung) was chang’d into a ram,

From whence the horns of Libyan Ammon came.

Bacchus a goat, Apollo was a crow,

Phaebe a cat; die wife of Jove a cow,

Whose hue was whiter than the falling snow.

Mercury to a nasty Ibis turn’d,

The change obscene, afraid of Typhon, mourn’d;

While Venus from a fish protection craves,

And once more plunges in her native waves.

She sung, and to her harp her voice apply’d;

Then us again to match her they defy’d.

But our poor song, perhaps, for you to hear,

Nor leisure serves, nor is it worth your ear.

That causeless doubt remove, O Muse rehearse,

The Goddess cry’d, your ever-grateful verse.

Beneath a chequer’d shade she takes her seat,

And bids the sister her whole song repeat.

The sister thus: Calliope we chose

For the performance. The sweet virgin rose,

With ivy crown’d she tunes her golden strings,

And to her harp this composition sings.

The Song of the Muses

First Ceres taught the lab’ring hind to plow

The pregnant Earth, and quickning seed to sow.

She first for Man did wholsome food provide,

And with just laws the wicked world supply’d:

All good from her deriv’d, to her belong

The grateful tributes of the Muse’s song.

Her more than worthy of our verse we deem,

Oh! were our verse more worthy of the theme.

Jove on the giant fair Trinacria hurl’d,

And with one bolt reveng’d his starry world.

Beneath her burning hills Tiphaeus lies,

And, strugling always, strives in vain to rise.

Down does Pelorus his right hand suppress

Tow’rd Latium, on the left Pachyne weighs.

His legs are under Lilybaeum spread,

And Aetna presses hard his horrid head.

On his broad back he there extended lies,

And vomits clouds of ashes to the skies.

Oft lab’ring with his load, at last he tires,

And spews out in revenge a flood of fires.

Mountains he struggles to o’erwhelm, and towns;

Earth’s inmost bowels quake, and Nature groans.

His terrors reach the direful king of Hell;

He fears his throws will to the day reveal

The realms of night, and fright his trembling ghosts.

This to prevent, he quits the Stygian coasts,

In his black carr, by sooty horses drawn,

Fair Sicily he seeks, and dreads the dawn.

Around her plains he casts his eager eyes,

And ev’ry mountain to the bottom tries.

But when, in all the careful search, he saw

No cause of fear, no ill-suspected flaw;

Secure from harm, and wand’ring on at will,

Venus beheld him from her flow’ry hill:

When strait the dame her little Cupid prest

With secret rapture to her snowy breast,

And in these words the flutt’ring boy addrest.

O thou, my arms, my glory, and my pow’r,

My son, whom men, and deathless Gods adore;

Bend thy sure bow, whose arrows never miss’d,

No longer let Hell’s king thy sway resist;

Take him, while stragling from his dark abodes

He coasts the kingdoms of superior Gods.

If sovereign Jove, if Gods who rule the waves,

And Neptune, who rules them, have been thy slaves;

Shall Hell be free? The tyrant strike, my son,

Enlarge thy mother’s empire, and thy own.

Let not our Heav’n be made the mock of Hell,

But Pluto to confess thy pow’r compel.

Our rule is slighted in our native skies,

See Pallas, see Diana too defies

Thy darts, which Ceres’ daughter wou’d despise.

She too our empire treats with aukward scorn;

Such insolence no longer’s to be born.

Revenge our slighted reign, and with thy dart

Transfix the virgin’s to the uncle’s heart.

She said; and from his quiver strait he drew

A dart that surely wou’d the business do.

She guides his hand, she makes her touch the test,

And of a thousand arrows chose the best:

No feather better pois’d, a sharper head

None had, and sooner none, and surer sped.

He bends his bow, he draws it to his ear,

Thro’ Pluto’s heart it drives, and fixes there.

The Rape of Proserpine

Near Enna’s walls a spacious lake is spread,

Fam’d for the sweetly-singing swans it bred;

Pergusa is its name: and never more

Were heard, or sweeter on Cayster’s shore.

Woods crown the lake; and Phoebus ne’er invades

The tufted fences, or offends the shades:

Fresh fragrant breezes fan the verdant bow’rs,

And the moist ground smiles with enamel’d flow’rs

The chearful birds their airy carols sing,

And the whole year is one eternal spring.

Here, while young Proserpine, among the maids,

Diverts herself in these delicious shades;

While like a child with busy speed and care

She gathers lillies here, and vi’lets there;

While first to fill her little lap she strives,

Hell’s grizly monarch at the shade arrives;

Sees her thus sporting on the flow’ry green,

And loves the blooming maid, as soon as seen.

His urgent flame impatient of delay,

Swift as his thought he seiz’d the beauteous prey,

And bore her in his sooty carr away.

The frighted Goddess to her mother cries,

But all in vain, for now far off she flies;

Far she behind her leaves her virgin train;

To them too cries, and cries to them in vain,

And, while with passion she repeats her call,

The vi’lets from her lap, and lillies fall:

She misses ‘em, poor heart! and makes new moan;

Her lillies, ah! are lost, her vi’lets gone.

O’er hills, the ravisher, and vallies speeds,

By name encouraging his foamy steeds;

He rattles o’er their necks the rusty reins,

And ruffles with the stroke their shaggy manes.

O’er lakes he whirls his flying wheels, and comes

To the Palici breathing sulph’rous fumes.

And thence to where the Bacchiads of renown

Between unequal havens built their town;

Where Arethusa, round th’ imprison’d sea,

Extends her crooked coast to Cyane;

The nymph who gave the neighb’ring lake a name,

Of all Sicilian nymphs the first in fame,

She from the waves advanc’d her beauteous head,

The Goddess knew, and thus to Pluto said:

Farther thou shalt not with the virgin run;

Ceres unwilling, canst thou be her son?

The maid shou’d be by sweet perswasion won.

Force suits not with the softness of the fair;

For, if great things with small I may compare,

Me Anapis once lov’d; a milder course

He took, and won me by his words, not force.

Then, stretching out her arms, she stopt his way;

But he, impatient of the shortest stay,

Throws to his dreadful steeds the slacken’d rein,

And strikes his iron sceptre thro’ the main;

The depths profound thro’ yielding waves he cleaves,

And to Hell’s center a free passage leaves;

Down sinks his chariot, and his realms of night

The God soon reaches with a rapid flight.

Cyane dissolves to a Fountain

But still does Cyane the rape bemoan,

And with the Goddess’ wrongs laments her own;

For the stoln maid, and for her injur’d spring,

Time to her trouble no relief can bring.

In her sad heart a heavy load she bears,

‘Till the dumb sorrow turns her all to tears.

Her mingling waters with that fountain pass,

Of which she late immortal Goddess was;

Her varied members to a fluid melt,

A pliant softness in her bones is felt;

Her wavy locks first drop away in dew,

And liquid next her slender fingers grew.

The body’s change soon seizes its extreme,

Her legs dissolve, and feet flow off in stream.

Her arms, her back, her shoulders, and her side,

Her swelling breasts in little currents glide,

A silver liquor only now remains

Within the channel of her purple veins;

Nothing to fill love’s grasp; her husband chaste

Bathes in that bosom he before embrac’d.

A Boy transform’d to an Eft

Thus, while thro’ all the Earth, and all the main,

Her daughter mournful Ceres sought in vain;

Aurora, when with dewy looks she rose,

Nor burnish’d Vesper found her in repose,

At Aetna’s flaming mouth two pitchy pines

To light her in her search at length she tines.

Restless, with these, thro’ frosty night she goes,

Nor fears the cutting winds, nor heeds the snows;

And, when the morning-star the day renews,

From east to west her absent child pursues.

Thirsty at last by long fatigue she grows,

But meets no spring, no riv’let near her flows.

Then looking round, a lowly cottage spies,

Smoaking among the trees, and thither hies.

The Goddess knocking at the little door,

‘Twas open’d by a woman old and poor,

Who, when she begg’d for water, gave her ale

Brew’d long, but well preserv’d from being stale.

The Goddess drank; a chuffy lad was by,

Who saw the liquor with a grutching eye,

And grinning cries, She’s greedy more than dry.

Ceres, offended at his foul grimace,

Flung what she had not drunk into his face,

The sprinklings speckle where they hit the skin,

And a long tail does from his body spin;

His arms are turn’d to legs, and lest his size

Shou’d make him mischievous, and he might rise

Against mankind, diminutives his frame,

Less than a lizzard, but in shape the same.

Amaz’d the dame the wondrous sight beheld,

And weeps, and fain wou’d touch her quondam child.

Yet her approach th’ affrighted vermin shuns,

And fast into the greatest crevice runs.

A name they gave him, which the spots exprest,

That rose like stars, and varied all his breast.

What lands, what seas the Goddess wander’d o’er,

Were long to tell; for there remain’d no more.

Searching all round, her fruitless toil she mourns,

And with regret to Sicily returns.

At length, where Cyane now flows, she came,

Who cou’d have told her, were she still the same

As when she saw her daughter sink to Hell;

But what she knows she wants a tongue to tell.

Yet this plain signal manifestly gave,

The virgin’s girdle floating on a wave,

As late she dropt it from her slender waste,

When with her uncle thro’ the deep she past.

Ceres the token by her grief confest,

And tore her golden hair, and beat her breast.

She knows not on what land her curse shou’d fall,

But, as ingrate, alike upbraids them all,

Unworthy of her gifts; Trinacria most,

Where the last steps she found of what she lost.

The plough for this the vengeful Goddess broke,

And with one death the ox, and owner struck,

In vain the fallow fields the peasant tills,

The seed, corrupted ere ‘tis sown, she kills.

The fruitful soil, that once such harvests bore,

Now mocks the farmer’s care, and teems no more.

And the rich grain which fills the furrow’d glade,

Rots in the seed, or shrivels in the blade;

Or too much sun burns up, or too much rain

Drowns, or black blights destroy the blasted plain;

Or greedy birds the new-sown seed devour,

Or darnel, thistles, and a crop impure

Of knotted grass along the acres stand,

And spread their thriving roots thro’ all the land.

Then from the waves soft Arethusa rears

Her head, and back she flings her dropping hairs.

O mother of the maid, whom thou so far

Hast sought, of whom thou canst no tidings hear;

O thou, she cry’d, who art to life a friend,

Cease here thy search, and let thy labour end.

Thy faithful Sicily’s a guiltless clime,

And shou’d not suffer for another’s crime;

She neither knew, nor cou’d prevent the deed;

Nor think that for my country thus I plead;

My country’s Pisa, I’m an alien here,

Yet these abodes to Elis I prefer,

No clime to me so sweet, no place so dear.

These springs I Arethusa now possess,

And this my seat, o gracious Goddess, bless:

This island why I love, and why I crost

Such spacious seas to reach Ortygia’s coast,

To you I shall impart, when, void of care,

Your heart’s at ease, and you’re more fit to hear;

When on your brow no pressing sorrow sits,

For gay content alone such tales admits.

When thro’ Earth’s caverns I a-while have roul’d

My waves, I rise, and here again behold

The long-lost stars; and, as I late did glide

Near Styx, Proserpina there I espy’d.

Fear still with grief might in her face be seen;

She still her rape laments; yet, made a queen,

Beneath those gloomy shades her sceptre sways,

And ev’n th’ infernal king her will obeys.

This heard, the Goddess like a statue stood,

Stupid with grief; and in that musing mood

Continu’d long; new cares a-while supprest

The reigning of her immortal breast.

At last to Jove her daughter’s sire she flies,

And with her chariot cuts the chrystal skies;

She comes in clouds, and with dishevel’d hair,

Standing before his throne, prefers her pray’r.

King of the Gods, defend my blood and thine,

And use it not the worse for being mine.

If I no more am gracious in thy sight,

Be just, o Jove, and do thy daughter right.

In vain I sought her the wide world around,

And, when I most despair’d to find her, found.

But how can I the fatal finding boast,

By which I know she is for ever lost?

Without her father’s aid, what other Pow’r

Can to my arms the ravish’d maid restore?

Let him restore her, I’ll the crime forgive;

My child, tho’ ravish’d, I’d with joy receive.

Pity, your daughter with a thief shou’d wed,

Tho’ mine, you think, deserves no better bed.

Jove thus replies: It equally belongs

To both, to guard our common pledge from wrongs.

But if to things we proper names apply,

This hardly can be call’d an injury.

The theft is love; nor need we blush to own

The thief, if I can judge, to be our son.

Had you of his desert no other proof,

To be Jove’s brother is methinks enough.

Nor was my throne by worth superior got,

Heav’n fell to me, as Hell to him, by lot:

If you are still resolv’d her loss to mourn,

And nothing less will serve than her return;

Upon these terms she may again be yours

(Th’ irrevocable terms of fate, not ours),

Of Stygian food if she did never taste,

Hell’s bounds may then, and only then, be past.

The Transformation of Ascalaphus into an Owl

The Goddess now, resolving to succeed,

Down to the gloomy shades descends with speed;

But adverse fate had otherwise decreed.

For, long before, her giddy thoughtless child

Had broke her fast, and all her projects spoil’d.

As in the garden’s shady walk she stray’d,

A fair pomegranate charm’d the simple maid,

Hung in her way, and tempting her to taste,

She pluck’d the fruit, and took a short repast.

Seven times, a seed at once, she eat the food;

The fact Ascalaphus had only view’d;

Whom Acheron begot in Stygian shades

On Orphne, fam’d among Avernal maids;

He saw what past, and by discov’ring all,

Detain’d the ravish’d nymph in cruel thrall.

But now a queen, she with resentment heard,

And chang’d the vile informer to a bird.

In Phlegeton’s black stream her hand she dips,

Sprinkles his head, and wets his babling lips.

Soon on his face, bedropt with magick dew,

A change appear’d, and gawdy feathers grew.

A crooked beak the place of nose supplies,

Rounder his head, and larger are his eyes.

His arms and body waste, but are supply’d

With yellow pinions flagging on each side.

His nails grow crooked, and are turn’d to claws,

And lazily along his heavy wings he draws.

Ill-omen’d in his form, the unlucky fowl,

Abhorr’d by men, and call’d a scrieching owl.

The Daughters of Achelous transform’d to Sirens

Justly this punishment was due to him,

And less had been too little for his crime;

But, o ye nymphs that from the flood descend,

What fault of yours the Gods cou’d so offend,

With wings and claws your beauteous forms to spoil,

Yet save your maiden face, and winning smile?

Were you not with her in Pergusa’s bow’rs,

When Proserpine went forth to gather flow’rs?

Since Pluto in his carr the Goddess caught,

Have you not for her in each climate sought?

And when on land you long had search’d in vain,

You wish’d for wings to cross the pathless main;

That Earth and Sea might witness to your care:

The Gods were easy, and return’d your pray’r;

With golden wing o’er foamy waves you fled,

And to the sun your plumy glories spread.

But, lest the soft enchantment of your songs,

And the sweet musick of your flat’ring tongues

Shou’d quite be lost (as courteous fates ordain),

Your voice and virgin beauty still remain.

Jove some amends for Ceres lost to make,

Yet willing Pluto shou’d the joy partake,

Gives ‘em of Proserpine an equal share,

Who, claim’d by both, with both divides the year.

The Goddess now in either empire sways,

Six moons in Hell, and six with Ceres stays.

Her peevish temper’s chang’d; that sullen mind,

Which made ev’n Hell uneasy, now is kind,

Her voice refines, her mein more sweet appears,

Her forehead free from frowns, her eyes from tears,

As when, with golden light, the conqu’ring day

Thro’ dusky exhalations clears a way.

Ceres her daughter’s rape no longer mourn’d,

But back to Arethusa’s spring return’d;

And sitting on the margin, bid her tell

From whence she came, and why a sacred well.

The Story of Arethusa

Still were the purling waters, and the maid

From the smooth surface rais’d her beauteous head,

Wipes off the drops that from her tresses ran,

And thus to tell Alpheus’ loves began.

In Elis first I breath’d the living air,

The chase was all my pleasure, all my care.

None lov’d like me the forest to explore,

To pitch the toils, and drive the bristled boar.

Of fair, tho’ masculine, I had the name,

But gladly wou’d to that have quitted claim:

It less my pride than indignation rais’d,

To hear the beauty I neglected, prais’d;

Such compliments I loath’d, such charms as these

I scorn’d, and thought it infamy to please.

Once, I remember, in the summer’s heat,

Tir’d with the chase, I sought a cool retreat;

And, walking on, a silent current found,

Which gently glided o’er the grav’ly ground.

The chrystal water was so smooth, so clear,

My eye distinguish’d ev’ry pebble there.

So soft its motion, that I scarce perceiv’d

The running stream, or what I saw believ’d.

The hoary willow, and the poplar, made

Along the shelving bank a grateful shade.

In the cool rivulet my feet I dipt,

Then waded to the knee, and then I stript;

My robe I careless on an osier threw,

That near the place commodiously grew;

Nor long upon the border naked stood,

But plung’d with speed into the silver flood.

My arms a thousand ways I mov’d, and try’d

To quicken, if I cou’d, the lazy tide;

Where, while I play’d my swimming gambols o’er,

I heard a murm’ring voice, and frighted sprung to shore.

Oh! whither, Arethusa, dost thou fly?

From the brook’s bottom did Alpheus cry;

Again, I heard him, in a hollow tone,

Oh! whither, Arethusa, dost thou run?

Naked I flew, nor cou’d I stay to hide

My limbs, my robe was on the other side;

Alpheus follow’d fast, th’ inflaming sight

Quicken’d his speed, and made his labour light;

He sees me ready for his eager arms,

And with a greedy glance devours my charms.

As trembling doves from pressing danger fly,

When the fierce hawk comes sousing from the sky;

And, as fierce hawks the trembling doves pursue,

From him I fled, and after me he flew.

First by Orchomenus I took my flight,

And soon had Psophis and Cyllene in sight;

Behind me then high Maenalus I lost,

And craggy Erimanthus scal’d with frost;

Elis was next; thus far the ground I trod

With nimble feet, before the distanc’d God.

But here I lagg’d, unable to sustain

The labour longer, and my flight maintain;

While he more strong, more patient of the toil,

And fir’d with hopes of beauty’s speedy spoil,

Gain’d my lost ground, and by redoubled pace,

Now left between us but a narrow space.

Unweary’d I ‘till now o’er hills, and plains,

O’er rocks, and rivers ran, and felt no pains:

The sun behind me, and the God I kept,

But, when I fastest shou’d have run, I stept.

Before my feet his shadow now appear’d;

As what I saw, or rather what I fear’d.

Yet there I could not be deceiv’d by fear,

Who felt his breath pant on my braided hair,

And heard his sounding tread, and knew him to be near.

Tir’d, and despairing, O celestial maid,

I’m caught, I cry’d, without thy heav’nly aid.

Help me, Diana, help a nymph forlorn,

Devoted to the woods, who long has worn

Thy livery, and long thy quiver born.

The Goddess heard; my pious pray’r prevail’d;

In muffling clouds my virgin head was veil’d,

The am’rous God, deluded of his hopes,

Searches the gloom, and thro’ the darkness gropes;

Twice, where Diana did her servant hide

He came, and twice, O Arethusa! cry’d.

How shaken was my soul, how sunk my heart!

The terror seiz’d on ev’ry trembling part.

Thus when the wolf about the mountain prowls

For prey, the lambkin hears his horrid howls:

The tim’rous hare, the pack approaching nigh,

Thus hearkens to the hounds, and trembles at the cry;

Nor dares she stir, for fear her scented breath

Direct the dogs, and guide the threaten’d death.

Alpheus in the cloud no traces found

To mark my way, yet stays to guard the ground,

The God so near, a chilly sweat possest

My fainting limbs, at ev’ry pore exprest;

My strength distill’d in drops, my hair in dew,

My form was chang’d, and all my substance new.

Each motion was a stream, and my whole frame

Turn’d to a fount, which still preserves my name.

Resolv’d I shou’d not his embrace escape,

Again the God resumes his fluid shape;

To mix his streams with mine he fondly tries,

But still Diana his attempt denies.

She cleaves the ground; thro’ caverns dark I run

A diff’rent current, while he keeps his own.

To dear Ortygia she conducts my way,

And here I first review the welcome day.

Here Arethusa stopt; then Ceres takes

Her golden carr, and yokes her fiery snakes;

With a just rein, along mid-heaven she flies

O’er Earth, and seas, and cuts the yielding skies.

She halts at Athens, dropping like a star,

And to Triptolemus resigns her carr.

Parent of seed, she gave him fruitful grain,

And bad him teach to till and plough the plain;

The seed to sow, as well in fallow fields,

As where the soil manur’d a richer harvest yields.

The Transformation of Lyncus

The youth o’er Europe and o’er Asia drives,

‘Till at the court of Lyncus he arrives.

The tyrant Scythia’s barb’rous empire sway’d;

And, when he saw Triptolemus, he said,

How cam’st thou, stranger, to our court, and why?

Thy country, and thy name? The youth did thus reply:

Triptolemus my name; my country’s known

O’er all the world, Minerva’s fav’rite town,

Athens, the first of cities in renown.

By land I neither walk’d, nor sail’d by sea,

But hither thro’ the Aether made my way.

By me, the Goddess who the fields befriends,

These gifts, the greatest of all blessings, sends.

The grain she gives if in your soil you sow,

Thence wholsom food in golden crops shall grow.

Soon as the secret to the king was known,

He grudg’d the glory of the service done,

And wickedly resolv’d to make it all his own.

To hide his purpose, he invites his guest,

The friend of Ceres, to a royal feast,

And when sweet sleep his heavy eyes had seiz’d,

The tyrant with his steel attempts his breast.

Him strait a lynx’s shape the Goddess gives,

And home the youth her sacred dragons drives.

The Pierides transform’d to Magpies

The chosen Muse here ends her sacred lays;

The nymphs unanimous decree the bays,

And give the Heliconian Goddesses the praise.

Then, far from vain that we shou’d thus prevail,

But much provok’d to hear the vanquish’d rail,

Calliope resumes: Too long we’ve born

Your daring taunts, and your affronting scorn;

Your challenge justly merited a curse,

And this unmanner’d railing makes it worse.

Since you refuse us calmly to enjoy

Our patience, next our passions we’ll employ;

The dictates of a mind enrag’d pursue,

And, what our just resentment bids us, do.

The railers laugh, our threats and wrath despise,

And clap their hands, and make a scolding noise:

But in the fact they’re seiz’d; beneath their nails

Feathers they feel, and on their faces scales;

Their horny beaks at once each other scare,

Their arms are plum’d, and on their backs they bear

Py’d wings, and flutter in the fleeting air.

Chatt’ring, the scandal of the woods they fly,

And there continue still their clam’rous cry:

The same their eloquence, as maids, or birds,

Now only noise, and nothing then but words.

Book VI

Book VI, in classic mythological fashion, appears to be a cautionary tale about the dangers of angering the gods. In it we see the familiar tragic stories of Arachne, Niobe, and Procne and Philomela.

Arachne, challenged by Minerva to a weaving contest, makes the mistake of being honest in depicting her opinions of the gods. While Minerva weaves a tapestry that glorifies the gods (and especially herself) while dehumanizing mortals, Arachne chooses to weave a tapestry that shows the gods tormenting and raping humans. Her tapestry is not only dangerously honest, it is also technically flawless, and this angers Minerva so much that Arachne’s worldview comes true like a self-fulfilling prophecy: Minerva torments her until she hangs herself, at which time Minerva turns her into a spider.

Niobe, unlike Arachne, is the arrogant challenger in her tale. She refuses to worship the goddess Latona despite the sound advice of Tiresias’s daughter, Manto, and even goes so far as to imply that she herself should be worshipped. Furious, Latona brings disaster to Niobe’s house, and Niobe cries so much that she is turned into a stone continually leaks tears.

Procne, on the other hand, did not actively anger the gods, but entered into an ill-fated marriage of which the gods did not approve. Her husband, Tereus, brutally rapes Procne’s sister, Philomela, and cuts out Philomela’s tongue to keep her silent. Philomela, however, weaves the scene into a tapestry that she sends to Procne, and Procne takes revenge on Tereus in a way best described by Ovid himself. By the end of the tale, Procne and Philomela are turned into a swallow and a nightingale.

The message here is clear: be careful of displeasing the gods—you never know what might happen, or what you’ll become.

The Transformation of Arachne

Pallas, attending to the Muse’s song,

Approv’d the just resentment of their wrong;

And thus reflects: While tamely I commend

Those who their injur’d deities defend,

My own divinity affronted stands,

And calls aloud for justice at my hands;

Then takes the hint, asham’d to lag behind,

And on Arachne’ bends her vengeful mind;

One at the loom so excellently skill’d,

That to the Goddess she refus’d to yield.

Low was her birth, and small her native town,

She from her art alone obtain’d renown.

Idmon, her father, made it his employ,

To give the spungy fleece a purple dye:

Of vulgar strain her mother, lately dead,

With her own rank had been content to wed;

Yet she their daughter, tho’ her time was spent

In a small hamlet, and of mean descent,

Thro’ the great towns of Lydia gain’d a name,

And fill’d the neighb’ring countries with her fame.

Oft, to admire the niceness of her skill,

The Nymphs would quit their fountain, shade, or hill:

Thither, from green Tymolus, they repair,

And leave the vineyards, their peculiar care;

Thither, from fam’d Pactolus’ golden stream,

Drawn by her art, the curious Naiads came.

Nor would the work, when finish’d, please so much,

As, while she wrought, to view each graceful touch;

Whether the shapeless wool in balls she wound,

Or with quick motion turn’d the spindle round,

Or with her pencil drew the neat design,

Pallas her mistress shone in every line.

This the proud maid with scornful air denies,

And ev’n the Goddess at her work defies;

Disowns her heav’nly mistress ev’ry hour,

Nor asks her aid, nor deprecates her pow’r.

Let us, she cries, but to a tryal come,

And, if she conquers, let her fix my doom.

The Goddess then a beldame’s form put on,

With silver hairs her hoary temples shone;

Prop’d by a staff, she hobbles in her walk,

And tott’ring thus begins her old wives’ talk.

Young maid attend, nor stubbornly despise

The admonitions of the old, and wise;

For age, tho’ scorn’d, a ripe experience bears,

That golden fruit, unknown to blooming years:

Still may remotest fame your labours crown,

And mortals your superior genius own;

But to the Goddess yield, and humbly meek

A pardon for your bold presumption seek;

The Goddess will forgive. At this the maid,

With passion fir’d, her gliding shuttle stay’d;

And, darting vengeance with an angry look,

To Pallas in disguise thus fiercely spoke.

Thou doating thing, whose idle babling tongue

But too well shews the plague of living long;

Hence, and reprove, with this your sage advice,

Your giddy daughter, or your aukward neice;

Know, I despise your counsel, and am still

A woman, ever wedded to my will;

And, if your skilful Goddess better knows,

Let her accept the tryal I propose.

She does, impatient Pallas strait replies,

And, cloath’d with heavenly light, sprung from her odd disguise.

The Nymphs, and virgins of the plain adore

The awful Goddess, and confess her pow’r;

The maid alone stood unappall’d; yet show’d

A transient blush, that for a moment glow’d,

Then disappear’d; as purple streaks adorn

The opening beauties of the rosy morn;

Till Phoebus rising prevalently bright,

Allays the tincture with his silver light.

Yet she persists, and obstinately great,

In hopes of conquest hurries on her fate.

The Goddess now the challenge waves no more,

Nor, kindly good, advises as before.

Strait to their posts appointed both repair,

And fix their threaded looms with equal care:

Around the solid beam the web is ty’d,

While hollow canes the parting warp divide;

Thro’ which with nimble flight the shuttles play,

And for the woof prepare a ready way;

The woof and warp unite, press’d by the toothy slay.

Thus both, their mantles button’d to their breast,

Their skilful fingers ply with willing haste,

And work with pleasure; while they chear the eye

With glowing purple of the Tyrian dye:

Or, justly intermixing shades with light,

Their colourings insensibly unite.

As when a show’r transpierc’d with sunny rays,

Its mighty arch along the heav’n displays;

From whence a thousand diff’rent colours rise,

Whose fine transition cheats the clearest eyes;

So like the intermingled shading seems,

And only differs in the last extreams.

Then threads of gold both artfully dispose,

And, as each part in just proportion rose,

Some antique fable in their work disclose.

Pallas in figures wrought the heav’nly Pow’rs,

And Mars’s hill among th’ Athenian tow’rs.

On lofty thrones twice six celestials sate,

Jove in the midst, and held their warm debate;

The subject weighty, and well-known to fame,

From whom the city shou’d receive its name.

Each God by proper features was exprest,

Jove with majestick mein excell’d the rest.

His three-fork’d mace the dewy sea-God shook,

And, looking sternly, smote the ragged rock;

When from the stone leapt forth a spritely steed,

And Neptune claims the city for the deed.

Herself she blazons, with a glitt’ring spear,

And crested helm that veil’d her braided hair,

With shield, and scaly breast-plate, implements of war.

Struck with her pointed launce, the teeming Earth

Seem’d to produce a new surprizing birth;

When, from the glebe, the pledge of conquest sprung,

A tree pale-green with fairest olives hung.

And then, to let her giddy rival learn

What just rewards such boldness was to earn,

Four tryals at each corner had their part,

Design’d in miniature, and touch’d with art.

Haemus in one, and Rodope of Thrace

Transform’d to mountains, fill’d the foremost place;

Who claim’d the titles of the Gods above,

And vainly us’d the epithets of Jove.

Another shew’d, where the Pigmaean dame,

Profaning Juno’s venerable name,

Turn’d to an airy crane, descends from far,

And with her Pigmy subjects wages war.

In a third part, the rage of Heav’n’s great queen,

Display’d on proud Antigone, was seen:

Who with presumptuous boldness dar’d to vye,

For beauty with the empress of the sky.

Ah! what avails her ancient princely race,

Her sire a king, and Troy her native place:

Now, to a noisy stork transform’d, she flies,

And with her whiten’d pinions cleaves the skies.

And in the last remaining part was drawn

Poor Cinyras that seem’d to weep in stone;

Clasping the temple steps, he sadly mourn’d

His lovely daughters, now to marble turn’d.

With her own tree the finish’d piece is crown’d,

And wreaths of peaceful olive all the work surround.

Arachne drew the fam’d intrigues of Jove,

Chang’d to a bull to gratify his love;

How thro’ the briny tide all foaming hoar,

Lovely Europa on his back he bore.

The sea seem’d waving, and the trembling maid

Shrunk up her tender feet, as if afraid;

And, looking back on the forsaken strand,

To her companions wafts her distant hand.

Next she design’d Asteria’s fabled rape,

When Jove assum’d a soaring eagle’s shape:

And shew’d how Leda lay supinely press’d,

Whilst the soft snowy swan sate hov’ring o’er her breast,

How in a satyr’s form the God beguil’d,

When fair Antiope with twins he fill’d.

Then, like Amphytrion, but a real Jove,

In fair Alcmena’s arms he cool’d his love.

In fluid gold to Danae’s heart he came,

Aegina felt him in a lambent flame.

He took Mnemosyne in shepherd’s make,

And for Deois was a speckled snake.

She made thee, Neptune, like a wanton steer,

Pacing the meads for love of Arne dear;

Next like a stream, thy burning flame to slake,

And like a ram, for fair Bisaltis’ sake.

Then Ceres in a steed your vigour try’d,

Nor cou’d the mare the yellow Goddess hide.

Next, to a fowl transform’d, you won by force

The snake-hair’d mother of the winged horse;

And, in a dolphin’s fishy form, subdu’d

Melantho sweet beneath the oozy flood.

All these the maid with lively features drew,

And open’d proper landskips to the view.

There Phoebus, roving like a country swain,

Attunes his jolly pipe along the plain;

For lovely Isse’s sake in shepherd’s weeds,

O’er pastures green his bleating flock he feeds,

There Bacchus, imag’d like the clust’ring grape,

Melting bedrops Erigone’s fair lap;

And there old Saturn, stung with youthful heat,

Form’d like a stallion, rushes to the feat.

Fresh flow’rs, which twists of ivy intertwine,

Mingling a running foliage, close the neat design.

This the bright Goddess passionately mov’d,

With envy saw, yet inwardly approv’d.

The scene of heav’nly guilt with haste she tore,

Nor longer the affront with patience bore;

A boxen shuttle in her hand she took,

And more than once Arachne’s forehead struck.

Th’ unhappy maid, impatient of the wrong,

Down from a beam her injur’d person hung;

When Pallas, pitying her wretched state,

At once prevented, and pronounc’d her fate:

Live; but depend, vile wretch, the Goddess cry’d,

Doom’d in suspence for ever to be ty’d;

That all your race, to utmost date of time,

May feel the vengeance, and detest the crime.

Then, going off, she sprinkled her with juice,

Which leaves of baneful aconite produce.

Touch’d with the pois’nous drug, her flowing hair

Fell to the ground, and left her temples bare;

Her usual features vanish’d from their place,

Her body lessen’d all, but most her face.

Her slender fingers, hanging on each side

With many joynts, the use of legs supply’d:

A spider’s bag the rest, from which she gives

A thread, and still by constant weaving lives.

The Story of Niobe

Swift thro’ the Phrygian towns the rumour flies,

And the strange news each female tongue employs:

Niobe, who before she married knew

The famous nymph, now found the story true;

Yet, unreclaim’d by poor Arachne’s fate,

Vainly above the Gods assum’d a state.

Her husband’s fame, their family’s descent,

Their pow’r, and rich dominion’s wide extent,

Might well have justify’d a decent pride;

But not on these alone the dame rely’d.

Her lovely progeny, that far excell’d,

The mother’s heart with vain ambition swell’d:

The happiest mother not unjustly styl’d,

Had no conceited thoughts her tow’ring fancy fill’d.

For once a prophetess with zeal inspir’d,

Their slow neglect to warm devotion fir’d;

Thro’ ev’ry street of Thebes who ran possess’d,

And thus in accents wild her charge express’d:

Haste, haste, ye Theban matrons, and adore,

With hallow’d rites, Latona’s mighty pow’r;

And, to the heav’nly twins that from her spring,

With laurel crown’d, your smoaking incense bring.

Strait the great summons ev’ry dame obey’d,

And due submission to the Goddess paid:

Graceful, with laurel chaplets dress’d, they came,

And offer’d incense in the sacred flame.

Mean-while, surrounded with a courtly guard,

The royal Niobe in state appear’d;

Attir’d in robes embroider’d o’er with gold,

And mad with rage, yet lovely to behold:

Her comely tresses, trembling as she stood,

Down her fine neck with easy motion flow’d;

Then, darting round a proud disdainful look,

In haughty tone her hasty passion broke,

And thus began: What madness this, to court

A Goddess, founded meerly on report?

Dare ye a poor pretended Pow’r invoke,

While yet no altars to my godhead smoke?

Mine, whose immediate lineage stands confess’d

From Tantalus, the only mortal guest

That e’er the Gods admitted to their feast.

A sister of the Pleiads gave me birth;

And Atlas, mightiest mountain upon Earth,

Who bears the globe of all the stars above,

My grandsire was, and Atlas sprung from Jove.

The Theban towns my majesty adore,

And neighb’ring Phrygia trembles at my pow’r:

Rais’d by my husband’s lute, with turrets crown’d,

Our lofty city stands secur’d around.

Within my court, where-e’er I turn my eyes,

Unbounded treasures to my prospect rise:

With these my face I modestly may name,

As not unworthy of so high a claim;

Seven are my daughters, of a form divine,

With seven fair sons, an indefective line.

Go, fools! consider this; and ask the cause

From which my pride its strong presumption draws;

Consider this; and then prefer to me

Caeus the Titan’s vagrant progeny;

To whom, in travel, the whole spacious Earth

No room afforded for her spurious birth.

Not the least part in Earth, in Heav’n, or seas,

Would grant your out-law’d Goddess any ease:

‘Till pitying hers, from his own wand’ring case,

Delos, the floating island, gave a place.

There she a mother was, of two at most;

Only the seventh part of what I boast.

My joys all are beyond suspicion fix’d;

With no pollutions of misfortune mix’d;

Safe on the Basis of my pow’r I stand,

Above the reach of Fortune’s fickle hand.

Lessen she may my inexhausted store,

And much destroy, yet still must leave me more.

Suppose it possible that some may dye

Of this my num’rous lovely progeny;

Still with Latona I might safely vye.

Who, by her scanty breed, scarce fit to name,

But just escapes the childless woman’s shame.

Go then, with speed your laurel’d heads uncrown,

And leave the silly farce you have begun.

The tim’rous throng their sacred rites forbore,

And from their heads the verdant laurel tore;

Their haughty queen they with regret obey’d,

And still in gentle murmurs softly pray’d.

High, on the top of Cynthus’ shady mount,

With grief the Goddess saw the base affront;

And, the abuse revolving in her breast,

The mother her twin-offspring thus addrest.

Lo I, my children, who with comfort knew

Your God-like birth, and thence my glory drew;

And thence have claim’d precedency of place

From all but Juno of the heav’nly race,

Must now despair, and languish in disgrace.

My godhead question’d, and all rites divine,

Unless you succour, banish’d from my shrine.

Nay more, the imp of Tantalus has flung

Reflections with her vile paternal tongue;

Has dar’d prefer her mortal breed to mine,

And call’d me childless; which, just fate, may she repine!

When to urge more the Goddess was prepar’d,

Phoebus in haste replies, Too much we’ve heard,

And ev’ry moment’s lost, while vengeance is defer’d.

Diana spoke the same. Then both enshroud

Their heav’nly bodies in a sable cloud;

And to the Theban tow’rs descending light,

Thro’ the soft yielding air direct their flight.

Without the wall there lies a champian ground

With even surface, far extending round,

Beaten and level’d, while it daily feels

The trampling horse, and chariot’s grinding wheels.

Part of proud Niobe’s young rival breed,

Practising there to ride the manag’d steed,

Their bridles boss’d with gold, were mounted high

On stately furniture of Tyrian dye.

Of these, Ismenos, who by birth had been

The first fair issue of the fruitful queen,

Just as he drew the rein to guide his horse,

Around the compass of the circling course,

Sigh’d deeply, and the pangs of smart express’d,

While the shaft stuck, engor’d within his breast:

And, the reins dropping from his dying hand,

He sunk quite down, and tumbled on the sand.

Sipylus next the rattling quiver heard,

And with full speed for his escape prepar’d;

As when the pilot from the black’ning skies

A gath’ring storm of wintry rain descries,

His sails unfurl’d, and crowded all with wind,

He strives to leave the threat’ning cloud behind:

So fled the youth; but an unerring dart

O’ertook him, quick discharg’d, and sped with art;

Fix’d in his neck behind, it trembling stood,

And at his throat display’d the point besmear’d with blood

Prone, as his posture was, he tumbled o’er,

And bath’d his courser’s mane with steaming gore.

Next at young Phaedimus they took their aim,

And Tantalus who bore his grandsire’s name:

These, when their other exercise was done,

To try the wrestler’s oily sport begun;

And, straining ev’ry nerve, their skill express’d

In closest grapple, joining breast to breast:

When from the bending bow an arrow sent,

Joyn’d as they were, thro’ both their bodies went:

Both groan’d, and writhing both their limbs with pain,

They fell together bleeding on the plain;

Then both their languid eye-balls faintly roul,

And thus together breathe away their soul.

With grief Alphenor saw their doleful plight,

And smote his breast, and sicken’d at the sight;

Then to their succour ran with eager haste,

And, fondly griev’d, their stiff’ning limbs embrac’d;

But in the action falls: a thrilling dart,

By Phoebus guided, pierc’d him to the heart.

This, as they drew it forth, his midriff tore,

Its barbed point the fleshy fragments bore,

And let the soul gush out in streams of purple gore.

But Damasichthon, by a double wound,

Beardless, and young, lay gasping on the ground.

Fix’d in his sinewy ham, the steely point

Stuck thro’ his knee, and pierc’d the nervous joint:

And, as he stoop’d to tug the painful dart,

Another struck him in a vital part;

Shot thro’ his wezon, by the wing it hung.

The life-blood forc’d it out, and darting upward sprung,

Ilioneus, the last, with terror stands,

Lifting in pray’r his unavailing hands;

And, ignorant from whom his griefs arise,

Spare me, o all ye heav’nly Pow’rs, he cries:

Phoebus was touch’d too late, the sounding bow

Had sent the shaft, and struck the fatal blow;

Which yet but gently gor’d his tender side,

So by a slight and easy wound he dy’d.

Swift to the mother’s ears the rumour came,

And doleful sighs the heavy news proclaim;

With anger and surprize inflam’d by turns,

In furious rage her haughty stomach burns:

First she disputes th’ effects of heav’nly pow’r,

Then at their daring boldness wonders more;

For poor Amphion with sore grief distrest,

Hoping to sooth his cares by endless rest,

Had sheath’d a dagger in his wretched breast.

And she, who toss’d her high disdainful head,

When thro’ the streets in solemn pomp she led

The throng that from Latona’s altar fled,

Assuming state beyond the proudest queen;

Was now the miserablest object seen.

Prostrate among the clay-cold dead she fell,

And kiss’d an undistinguish’d last farewel.

Then her pale arms advancing to the skies,

Cruel Latona! triumph now, she cries.

My grieving soul in bitter anguish drench,

And with my woes your thirsty passion quench;

Feast your black malice at a price thus dear,

While the sore pangs of sev’n such deaths I bear.

Triumph, too cruel rival, and display

Your conqu’ring standard; for you’ve won the day.

Yet I’ll excel; for yet, tho’ sev’n are slain,

Superior still in number I remain.

Scarce had she spoke; the bow-string’s twanging sound

Was heard, and dealt fresh terrors all around;

Which all, but Niobe alone, confound.

Stunn’d, and obdurate by her load of grief,

Insensible she sits, nor hopes relief.

Before the fun’ral biers, all weeping sad,

Her daughters stood, in vests of sable clad,

When one, surpriz’d, and stung with sudden smart,

In vain attempts to draw the sticking dart:

But to grim death her blooming youth resigns,

And o’er her brother’s corpse her dying head reclines.

This, to asswage her mother’s anguish tries,

And, silenc’d in the pious action, dies;

Shot by a secret arrow, wing’d with death,

Her fault’ring lips but only gasp’d for breath.

One, on her dying sister, breathes her last;

Vainly in flight another’s hopes are plac’d:

This hiding, from her fate a shelter seeks;

That trembling stands, and fills the air with shrieks.

And all in vain; for now all six had found

Their way to death, each by a diff’rent wound.

The last, with eager care the mother veil’d,

Behind her spreading mantle close conceal’d,

And with her body guarded, as a shield.

Only for this, this youngest, I implore,

Grant me this one request, I ask no more;

O grant me this! she passionately cries:

But while she speaks, the destin’d virgin dies.

The Transformation of Niobe

Widow’d, and childless, lamentable state!

A doleful sight, among the dead she sate;

Harden’d with woes, a statue of despair,

To ev’ry breath of wind unmov’d her hair;

Her cheek still red’ning, but its colour dead,

Faded her eyes, and set within her head.

No more her pliant tongue its motion keeps,

But stands congeal’d within her frozen lips.

Stagnate, and dull, within her purple veins,

Its current stop’d, the lifeless blood remains.

Her feet their usual offices refuse,

Her arms, and neck their graceful gestures lose:

Action, and life from ev’ry part are gone,

And ev’n her entrails turn to solid stone;

Yet still she weeps, and whirl’d by stormy winds,

Born thro’ the air, her native country finds;

There fix’d, she stands upon a bleaky hill,

There yet her marble cheeks eternal tears distil.

The Peasants of Lycia transform’d to Frogs

Then all, reclaim’d by this example, show’d

A due regard for each peculiar God:

Both men, and women their devoirs express’d,

And great Latona’s awful pow’r confess’d.

Then, tracing instances of older time,

To suit the nature of the present crime,

Thus one begins his tale.- Where Lycia yields

A golden harvest from its fertile fields,

Some churlish peasants, in the days of yore,

Provok’d the Goddess to exert her pow’r.

The thing indeed the meanness of the place

Has made obscure, surprizing as it was;

But I my self once happen’d to behold

This famous lake of which the story’s told.

My father then, worn out by length of days,

Nor able to sustain the tedious ways,

Me with a guide had sent the plains to roam,

And drive his well-fed stragling heifers home.

Here, as we saunter’d thro’ the verdant meads,

We spy’d a lake o’er-grown with trembling reeds,

Whose wavy tops an op’ning scene disclose,

From which an antique smoaky altar rose.

I, as my susperstitious guide had done,

Stop’d short, and bless’d my self, and then went on;

Yet I enquir’d to whom the altar stood,

Faunus, the Naids, or some native God?

No silvan deity, my friend replies,

Enshrin’d within this hallow’d altar lies.

For this, o youth, to that fam’d Goddess stands,

Whom, at th’ imperial Juno’s rough commands,

Of ev’ry quarter of the Earth bereav’d,

Delos, the floating isle, at length receiv’d.

Who there, in spite of enemies, brought forth,

Beneath an olive’s shade, her great twin-birth.

Hence too she fled the furious stepdame’s pow’r,

And in her arms a double godhead bore;

And now the borders of fair Lycia gain’d,

Just when the summer solstice parch’d the land.

With thirst the Goddess languishing, no more

Her empty’d breast would yield its milky store;

When, from below, the smiling valley show’d

A silver lake that in its bottom flow’d:

A sort of clowns were reaping, near the bank,

The bending osier, and the bullrush dank;

The cresse, and water-lilly, fragrant weed,

Whose juicy stalk the liquid fountains feed.

The Goddess came, and kneeling on the brink,

Stoop’d at the fresh repast, prepar’d to drink.

Then thus, being hinder’d by the rabble race,

In accents mild expostulates the case.

Water I only ask, and sure ‘tis hard

From Nature’s common rights to be debar’d:

This, as the genial sun, and vital air,

Should flow alike to ev’ry creature’s share.

Yet still I ask, and as a favour crave,

That which, a publick bounty, Nature gave.

Nor do I seek my weary limbs to drench;

Only, with one cool draught, my thirst I’d quench.

Now from my throat the usual moisture dries,

And ev’n my voice in broken accents dies:

One draught as dear as life I should esteem,

And water, now I thirst, would nectar seem.

Oh! let my little babes your pity move,

And melt your hearts to charitable love;

They (as by chance they did) extend to you

Their little hands, and my request pursue.

Whom would these soft perswasions not subdue,

Tho’ the most rustick, and unmanner’d crew?

Yet they the Goddess’s request refuse,

And with rude words reproachfully abuse:

Nay more, with spiteful feet the villains trod

O’er the soft bottom of the marshy flood,

And blacken’d all the lake with clouds of rising mud.

Her thirst by indignation was suppress’d;

Bent on revenge, the Goddess stood confess’d.

Her suppliant hands uplifting to the skies,

For a redress, to Heav’n she now applies.

And, May you live, she passionately cry’d,

Doom’d in that pool for ever to abide.

The Goddess has her wish; for now they chuse

To plunge, and dive among the watry ooze;

Sometimes they shew their head above the brim,

And on the glassy surface spread to swim;

Often upon the bank their station take,

Then spring, and leap into the cooly lake.

Still, void of shame, they lead a clam’rous life,

And, croaking, still scold on in endless strife;

Compell’d to live beneath the liquid stream,

Where still they quarrel, and attempt to skream.

Now, from their bloated throat, their voice puts on

Imperfect murmurs in a hoarser tone;

Their noisy jaws, with bawling now grown wide,

An ugly sight! extend on either side:

Their motly back, streak’d with a list of green,

Joyn’d to their head, without a neck is seen;

And, with a belly broad and white, they look

Meer frogs, and still frequent the muddy brook.

The Fate of Marsyas

Scarce had the man this famous story told,

Of vengeance on the Lycians shown of old,

When strait another pictures to their view

The Satyr’s fate, whom angry Phoebus slew;

Who, rais’d with high conceit, and puff’d with pride,

At his own pipe the skilful God defy’d.

Why do you tear me from my self, he cries?

Ah cruel! must my skin be made the prize?

This for a silly pipe? he roaring said,

Mean-while the skin from off his limbs was flay’d.

All bare, and raw, one large continu’d wound,

With streams of blood his body bath’d the ground.

The blueish veins their trembling pulse disclos’d,

The stringy nerves lay naked, and expos’d;

His guts appear’d, distinctly each express’d,

With ev’ry shining fibre of his breast.

The Fauns, and Silvans, with the Nymphs that rove

Among the Satyrs in the shady grove;

Olympus, known of old, and ev’ry swain

That fed, or flock, or herd upon the plain,

Bewail’d the loss; and with their tears that flow’d,

A kindly moisture on the earth bestow’d;

That soon, conjoyn’d, and in a body rang’d,

Sprung from the ground, to limpid water chang’d;

Which, down thro’ Phrygia’s rocks, a mighty stream,

Comes tumbling to the sea, and Marsya is its name.

The Story of Pelops

From these relations strait the people turn

To present truths, and lost Amphion mourn:

The mother most was blam’d, yet some relate

That Pelops pity’d, and bewail’d her fate,

And stript his cloaths, and laid his shoulder bare,

And made the iv’ry miracle appear.

This shoulder, from the first, was form’d of flesh,

As lively as the other, and as fresh;

But, when the youth was by his father slain,

The Gods restor’d his mangled limbs again;

Only that place which joins the neck and arm,

The rest untouch’d, was found to suffer harm:

The loss of which an iv’ry piece sustain’d;

And thus the youth his limbs, and life regain’d.

The Story of Tereus, Procne, and Philomela

To Thebes the neighb’ring princes all repair,

And with condolance the misfortune share.

Each bord’ring state in solemn form address’d,

And each betimes a friendly grief express’d.

Argos, with Sparta’s, and Mycenae’s towns,

And Calydon, yet free from fierce Diana’s frowns.

Corinth for finest brass well fam’d of old,

Orthomenos for men of courage bold:

Cleonae lying in the lowly dale,

And rich Messene with its fertile vale:

Pylos, for Nestor’s City after fam’d,

And Troezen, not as yet from Pittheus nam’d.

And those fair cities, which are hem’d around

By double seas within the Isthmian ground;

And those, which farther from the sea-coast stand,

Lodg’d in the bosom of the spacious land.

Who can believe it? Athens was the last:

Tho’ for politeness fam’d for ages past.

For a strait siege, which then their walls enclos’d,

Such acts of kind humanity oppos’d:

And thick with ships, from foreign nations bound,

Sea-ward their city lay invested round.

These, with auxiliar forces led from far,

Tereus of Thrace, brave, and inur’d to war,

Had quite defeated, and obtain’d a name,

The warrior’s due, among the sons of Fame.

This, with his wealth, and pow’r, and ancient line,

From Mars deriv’d, Pandions’s thoughts incline

His daughter Procne with the prince to joyn.

Nor Hymen, nor the Graces here preside,

Nor Juno to befriend the blooming bride;

But Fiends with fun’ral brands the process led,

And Furies waited at the Genial bed:

And all night long the scrieching owl aloof,

With baleful notes, sate brooding o’er the roof.

With such ill Omens was the match begun,

That made them parents of a hopeful son.

Now Thrace congratulates their seeming joy,

And they, in thankful rites, their minds employ.

If the fair queen’s espousals pleas’d before,

Itys, the new-born prince, now pleases more;

And each bright day, the birth, and bridal feast,

Were kept with hallow’d pomp above the rest.

So far true happiness may lye conceal’d,

When, by false lights, we fancy ‘tis reveal’d!

Now, since their nuptials, had the golden sun

Five courses round his ample zodiac run;

When gentle Procne thus her lord address’d,

And spoke the secret wishes of her breast:

If I, she said, have ever favour found,

Let my petition with success be crown’d:

Let me at Athens my dear sister see,

Or let her come to Thrace, and visit me.

And, lest my father should her absence mourn,

Promise that she shall make a quick return.

With thanks I’d own the obligation due

Only, o Tereus, to the Gods, and you.

Now, ply’d with oar, and sail at his command,

The nimble gallies reach’d th’ Athenian land,

And anchor’d in the fam’d Piraean bay,

While Tereus to the palace takes his way;

The king salutes, and ceremonies past,

Begins the fatal embassy at last;

The occasion of his voyage he declares,

And, with his own, his wife’s request prefers:

Asks leave that, only for a little space,

Their lovely sister might embark for Thrace.

Thus while he spoke, appear’d the royal maid,

Bright Philomela, splendidly array’d;

But most attractive in her charming face,

And comely person, turn’d with ev’ry grace:

Like those fair Nymphs, that are describ’d to rove

Across the glades, and op’nings of the grove;

Only that these are dress’d for silvan sports,

And less become the finery of courts.

Tereus beheld the virgin, and admir’d,

And with the coals of burning lust was fir’d:

Like crackling stubble, or the summer hay,

When forked lightnings o’er the meadows play.

Such charms in any breast might kindle love,

But him the heats of inbred lewdness move;

To which, tho’ Thrace is naturally prone,

Yet his is still superior, and his own.

Strait her attendants he designs to buy,

And with large bribes her governess would try:

Herself with ample gifts resolves to bend,

And his whole kingdom in th’ attempt expend:

Or, snatch’d away by force of arms, to bear,

And justify the rape with open war.

The boundless passion boils within his breast,

And his projecting soul admits no rest.

And now, impatient of the least delay,

By pleading Procne’s cause, he speeds his way:

The eloquence of love his tongue inspires,

And, in his wife’s, he speaks his own desires;

Hence all his importunities arise,

And tears unmanly trickle from his eyes.

Ye Gods! what thick involving darkness blinds

The stupid faculties of mortal minds!

Tereus the credit of good-nature gains

From these his crimes; so well the villain feigns.

And, unsuspecting of his base designs,

In the request fair Philomela joyns;

Her snowy arms her aged sire embrace,

And clasp his neck with an endearing grace:

Only to see her sister she entreats,

A seeming blessing, which a curse compleats.

Tereus surveys her with a luscious eye,

And in his mind forestalls the blissful joy:

Her circling arms a scene of lust inspire,

And ev’ry kiss foments the raging fire.

Fondly he wishes for the father’s place,

To feel, and to return the warm embrace;

Since not the nearest ties of filial blood

Would damp his flame, and force him to be good.

At length, for both their sakes, the king agrees;

And Philomela, on her bended knees,

Thanks him for what her fancy calls success,

When cruel fate intends her nothing less.

Now Phoebus, hastning to ambrosial rest,

His fiery steeds drove sloping down the west:

The sculptur’d gold with sparkling wines was fill’d,

And, with rich meats, each chearful table smil’d.

Plenty, and mirth the royal banquet close,

Then all retire to sleep, and sweet repose.

But the lewd monarch, tho’ withdrawn apart,

Still feels love’s poison rankling in his heart:

Her face divine is stamp’d within his breast,

Fancy imagines, and improves the rest:

And thus, kept waking by intense desire,

He nourishes his own prevailing fire.

Next day the good old king for Tereus sends,

And to his charge the virgin recommends;

His hand with tears th’ indulgent father press’d,

Then spoke, and thus with tenderness address’d.

Since the kind instances of pious love,

Do all pretence of obstacle remove;

Since Procne’s, and her own, with your request,

O’er-rule the fears of a paternal breast;

With you, dear son, my daughter I entrust,

And by the Gods adjure you to be just;

By truth, and ev’ry consanguineal tye,

To watch, and guard her with a father’s eye.

And, since the least delay will tedious prove,

In keeping from my sight the child I love,

With speed return her, kindly to asswage

The tedious troubles of my lingring age.

And you, my Philomel, let it suffice,

To know your sister’s banish’d from my eyes;

If any sense of duty sways your mind,

Let me from you the shortest absence find.

He wept; then kiss’d his child; and while he speaks,

The tears fall gently down his aged cheeks.

Next, as a pledge of fealty, he demands,

And, with a solemn charge, conjoyns their hands;

Then to his daughter, and his grandson sends,

And by their mouth a blessing recommends;

While, in a voice with dire forebodings broke,

Sobbing, and faint, the last farewel was spoke.

Now Philomela, scarce receiv’d on board,

And in the royal gilded bark secur’d,

Beheld the dashes of the bending oar,

The ruffled sea, and the receding shore;

When strait (his joy impatient of disguise)

We’ve gain’d our point, the rough Barbarian cries;

Now I possess the dear, the blissful hour,

And ev’ry wish subjected to my pow’r.

Transports of lust his vicious thoughts employ,

And he forbears, with pain, th’ expected joy.

His gloting eyes incessantly survey’d

The virgin beauties of the lovely maid:

As when the bold rapacious bird of Jove,

With crooked talons stooping from above,

Has snatcht, and carry’d to his lofty nest

A captive hare, with cruel gripes opprest;

Secure, with fix’d, and unrelenting eyes,

He sits, and views the helpless, trembling prize.

Their vessels now had made th’ intended land,

And all with joy descend upon the strand;

When the false tyrant seiz’d the princely maid,

And to a lodge in distant woods convey’d;

Pale, sinking, and distress’d with jealous fears,

And asking for her sister all in tears.

The letcher, for enjoyment fully bent,

No longer now conceal’d his base intent;

But with rude haste the bloomy girl deflow’r’d,

Tender, defenceless, and with ease o’erpower’d.

Her piercing accents to her sire complain,

And to her absent sister, but in vain:

In vain she importunes, with doleful cries,

Each unattentive godhead of the skies.

She pants and trembles, like the bleating prey,

From some close-hunted wolf just snatch’d away;

That still, with fearful horror, looks around,

And on its flank regards the bleeding wound.

Or, as the tim’rous dove, the danger o’er,

Beholds her shining plumes besmear’d with gore,

And, tho’ deliver’d from the faulcon’s claw,

Yet shivers, and retains a secret awe.

But when her mind a calm reflection shar’d,

And all her scatter’d spirits were repair’d:

Torn, and disorder’d while her tresses hung,

Her livid hands, like one that mourn’d, she wrung;

Then thus, with grief o’erwhelm’d her languid eyes,

Savage, inhumane, cruel wretch! she cries;

Whom not a parent’s strict commands could move,

Tho’ charg’d, and utter’d with the tears of love;

Nor virgin innocence, nor all that’s due

To the strong contract of the nuptial vow:

Virtue, by this, in wild confusion’s laid,

And I compell’d to wrong my sister’s bed;

Whilst you, regardless of your marriage oath,

With stains of incest have defil’d us both.

Tho’ I deserv’d some punishment to find,

This was, ye Gods! too cruel, and unkind.

Yet, villain, to compleat your horrid guilt,

Stab here, and let my tainted blood be spilt.

Oh happy! had it come, before I knew

The curs’d embrace of vile perfidious you;

Then my pale ghost, pure from incestuous love,

Had wander’d spotless thro’ th’ Elysian grove.

But, if the Gods above have pow’r to know,

And judge those actions that are done below;

Unless the dreaded thunders of the sky,

Like me, subdu’d, and violated lye;

Still my revenge shall take its proper time,

And suit the baseness of your hellish crime.

My self, abandon’d, and devoid of shame,

Thro’ the wide world your actions will proclaim;

Or tho’ I’m prison’d in this lonely den,

Obscur’d, and bury’d from the sight of men,

My mournful voice the pitying rocks shall move,

And my complainings eccho thro’ the grove.

Hear me, o Heav’n! and, if a God be there,

Let him regard me, and accept my pray’r.

Struck with these words, the tyrant’s guilty breast

With fear, and anger, was, by turns, possest;

Now, with remorse his conscience deeply stung,

He drew the faulchion that beside her hung,

And first her tender arms behind her bound,

Then drag’d her by the hair along the ground.

The princess willingly her throat reclin’d,

And view’d the steel with a contented mind;

But soon her tongue the girding pinchers strain,

With anguish, soon she feels the piercing pain:

Oh father! father! would fain have spoke,

But the sharp torture her intention broke;

In vain she tries, for now the blade has cut

Her tongue sheer off, close to the trembling root.

The mangled part still quiver’d on the ground,

Murmuring with a faint imperfect sound:

And, as a serpent writhes his wounded train,

Uneasy, panting, and possess’d with pain;

The piece, while life remain’d, still trembled fast,

And to its mistress pointed to the last.

Yet, after this so damn’d, and black a deed,

Fame (which I scarce can credit) has agreed,

That on her rifled charms, still void of shame,

He frequently indulg’d his lustful flame,

At last he ventures to his Procne’s sight,

Loaded with guilt, and cloy’d with long delight;

There, with feign’d grief, and false, dissembled sighs,

Begins a formal narrative of lies;

Her sister’s death he artfully declares,

Then weeps, and raises credit from his tears.

Her vest, with flow’rs of gold embroider’d o’er,

With grief distress’d, the mournful matron tore,

And a beseeming suit of gloomy sable wore.

With cost, an honorary tomb she rais’d,

And thus th’ imaginary ghost appeas’d.

Deluded queen! the fate of her you love,

Nor grief, nor pity, but revenge should move.

Thro’ the twelve signs had pass’d the circling sun,

And round the compass of the Zodiac run;

What must unhappy Philomela do,

For ever subject to her keeper’s view?

Huge walls of massy stone the lodge surround,

From her own mouth no way of speaking’s found.

But all our wants by wit may be supply’d,

And art makes up, what fortune has deny’d:

With skill exact a Phrygian web she strung,

Fix’d to a loom that in her chamber hung,

Where in-wrought letters, upon white display’d,

In purple notes, her wretched case betray’d:

The piece, when finish’d, secretly she gave

Into the charge of one poor menial slave;

And then, with gestures, made him understand,

It must be safe convey’d to Procne’s hand.

The slave, with speed, the queen’s apartment sought,

And render’d up his charge, unknowing what he brought.

But when the cyphers, figur’d in each fold,

Her sister’s melancholy story told

(Strange that she could!) with silence, she survey’d

The tragick piece, and without weeping read:

In such tumultuous haste her passions sprung,

They choak’d her voice, and quite disarm’d her tongue.

No room for female tears; the Furies rise,

Darting vindictive glances from her eyes;

And, stung with rage, she bounds from place to place,

While stern revenge sits low’ring in her face.

Now the triennial celebration came,

Observ’d to Bacchus by each Thracian dame;

When, in the privacies of night retir’d,

They act his rites, with sacred rapture fir’d:

By night, the tinkling cymbals ring around,

While the shrill notes from Rhodope resound;

By night, the queen, disguis’d, forsakes the court,

To mingle in the festival resort.

Leaves of the curling vine her temples shade,

And, with a circling wreath, adorn her head:

Adown her back the stag’s rough spoils appear,

Light on her shoulder leans a cornel spear.

Thus, in the fury of the God conceal’d,

Procne her own mad headstrong passion veil’d;

Now, with her gang, to the thick wood she flies,

And with religious yellings fills the skies;

The fatal lodge, as ‘twere by chance, she seeks,

And, thro’ the bolted doors, an entrance breaks;

From thence, her sister snatching by the hand,

Mask’d like the ranting Bacchanalian band,

Within the limits of the court she drew,

Shading, with ivy green, her outward hue.

But Philomela, conscious of the place,

Felt new reviving pangs of her disgrace;

A shiv’ring cold prevail’d in ev’ry part,

And the chill’d blood ran trembling to her heart.

Soon as the queen a fit retirement found,

Stript of the garlands that her temples crown’d,

She strait unveil’d her blushing sister’s face,

And fondly clasp’d her with a close embrace:

But, in confusion lost, th’ unhappy maid,

With shame dejected, hung her drooping head,

As guilty of a crime that stain’d her sister’s bed.

That speech, that should her injur’d virtue clear,

And make her spotless innocence appear,

Is now no more; only her hands, and eyes

Appeal, in signals, to the conscious skies.

In Procne’s breast the rising passions boil,

And burst in anger with a mad recoil;

Her sister’s ill-tim’d grief, with scorn, she blames,

Then, in these furious words her rage proclaims.

Tears, unavailing, but defer our time,

The stabbing sword must expiate the crime;

Or worse, if wit, on bloody vengeance bent,

A weapon more tormenting can invent.

O sister! I’ve prepar’d my stubborn heart,

To act some hellish, and unheard-of part;

Either the palace to surround with fire,

And see the villain in the flames expire;

Or, with a knife, dig out his cursed eyes,

Or, his false tongue with racking engines seize;

Or, cut away the part that injur’d you,

And, thro’ a thousand wounds, his guilty soul pursue.

Tortures enough my passion has design’d,

But the variety distracts my mind.

A-while, thus wav’ring, stood the furious dame,

When Itys fondling to his mother came;

From him the cruel fatal hint she took,

She view’d him with a stern remorseless look:

Ah! but too like thy wicked sire, she said,

Forming the direful purpose in her head.

At this a sullen grief her voice supprest,

While silent passions struggle in her breast.

Now, at her lap arriv’d, the flatt’ring boy

Salutes his parent with a smiling joy:

About her neck his little arms are thrown,

And he accosts her in a pratling tone.

Then her tempestuous anger was allay’d,

And in its full career her vengeance stay’d;

While tender thoughts, in spite of passion, rise,

And melting tears disarm her threat’ning eyes.

But when she found the mother’s easy heart,

Too fondly swerving from th’ intended part;

Her injur’d sister’s face again she view’d:

And, as by turns surveying both she stood,

While this fond boy (she said) can thus express

The moving accents of his fond address;

Why stands my sister of her tongue bereft,

Forlorn, and sad, in speechless silence left?

O Procne, see the fortune of your house!

Such is your fate, when match’d to such a spouse!

Conjugal duty, if observ’d to him,

Would change from virtue, and become a crime;

For all respect to Tereus must debase

The noble blood of great Pandion’s race.

Strait at these words, with big resentment fill’d,

Furious her look, she flew, and seiz’d her child;

Like a fell tigress of the savage kind,

That drags the tender suckling of the hind

Thro’ India’s gloomy groves, where Ganges laves

The shady scene, and rouls his streamy waves.

Now to a close apartment they were come,

Far off retir’d within the spacious dome;

When Procne, on revengeful mischief bent,

Home to his heart a piercing ponyard sent.

Itys, with rueful cries, but all too late,

Holds out his hands, and deprecates his fate;

Still at his mother’s neck he fondly aims,

And strives to melt her with endearing names;

Yet still the cruel mother perseveres,

Nor with concern his bitter anguish hears.

This might suffice; but Philomela too

Across his throat a shining curtlass drew.

Then both, with knives, dissect each quiv’ring part,

And carve the butcher’d limbs with cruel art;

Which, whelm’d in boiling cauldrons o’er the fire,

Or turn’d on spits, in steamy smoak aspire:

While the long entries, with their slipp’ry floor,

Run down in purple streams of clotted gore.

Ask’d by his wife to this inhuman feast,

Tereus unknowingly is made a guest:

Whilst she her plot the better to disguise,

Styles it some unknown mystick sacrifice;

And such the nature of the hallow’d rite,

The wife her husband only could invite,

The slaves must all withdraw, and be debarr’d the sight.

Tereus, upon a throne of antique state,

Loftily rais’d, before the banquet sate;

And glutton like, luxuriously pleas’d,

With his own flesh his hungry maw appeas’d.

Nay, such a blindness o’er his senses falls,

That he for Itys to the table calls.

When Procne, now impatient to disclose

The joy that from her full revenge arose,

Cries out, in transports of a cruel mind,

Within your self your Itys you may find.

Still, at this puzzling answer, with surprise,

Around the room he sends his curious eyes;

And, as he still inquir’d, and call’d aloud,

Fierce Philomela, all besmear’d with blood,

Her hands with murder stain’d, her spreading hair

Hanging dishevel’d with a ghastly air,

Stept forth, and flung full in the tyrant’s face

The head of Itys, goary as it was:

Nor ever so much to use her tongue,

And with a just reproach to vindicate her wrong.

The Thracian monarch from the table flings,

While with his cries the vaulted parlour rings;

His imprecations eccho down to Hell,

And rouze the snaky Furies from their Stygian cell.

One while he labours to disgorge his breast,

And free his stomach from the cursed feast;

Then, weeping o’er his lamentable doom,

He styles himself his son’s sepulchral tomb.

Now, with drawn sabre, and impetuous speed,

In close pursuit he drives Pandion’s breed;

Whose nimble feet spring with so swift a force

Across the fields, they seem to wing their course.

And now, on real wings themselves they raise,

And steer their airy flight by diff’rent ways;

One to the woodland’s shady covert hies,

Around the smoaky roof the other flies;

Whose feathers yet the marks of murder stain,

Where stampt upon her breast, the crimson spots remain.

Tereus, through grief, and haste to be reveng’d,

Shares the like fate, and to a bird is chang’d:

Fix’d on his head, the crested plumes appear,

Long is his beak, and sharpen’d like a spear;

Thus arm’d, his looks his inward mind display,

And, to a lapwing turn’d, he fans his way.

Exceeding trouble, for his children’s fate,

Shorten’d Pandion’s days, and chang’d his date;

Down to the shades below, with sorrow spent,

An earlier, unexpected ghost he went.

Boreas in Love

Erechtheus next th’ Athenian sceptre sway’d,

Whose rule the state with joynt consent obey’d;

So mix’d his justice with his valour flow’d,

His reign one scene of princely goodness shew’d.

Four hopeful youths, as many females bright,

Sprung from his loyns, and sooth’d him with delight.

Two of these sisters, of a lovelier air,

Excell’d the rest, tho’ all the rest were fair.

Procris, to Cephalus in wedlock ty’d,

Bless’d the young silvan with a blooming bride:

For Orithyia Boreas suffer’d pain,

For the coy maid sued long, but sued in vain;

Tereus his neighbour, and his Thracian blood,

Against the match a main objection stood;

Which made his vows, and all his suppliant love,

Empty as air and ineffectual prove.

But when he found his soothing flatt’ries fail,

Nor saw his soft addresses cou’d avail;

Blust’ring with ire, he quickly has recourse

To rougher arts, and his own native force.

‘Tis well, he said; such usage is my due,

When thus disguis’d by foreign ways I sue;

When my stern airs, and fierceness I disclaim,

And sigh for love, ridiculously tame;

When soft addresses foolishly I try,

Nor my own stronger remedies apply.

By force and violence I chiefly live,

By them the lowring stormy tempests drive;

In foaming billows raise the hoary deep,

Writhe knotted oaks, and sandy desarts sweep;

Congeal the falling flakes of fleecy snow,

And bruise, with ratling hall, the plains below.

I, and my brother-winds, when joyn’d above,

Thro’ the waste champian of the skies we rove,

With such a boist’rous full career engage,

That Heav’n’s whole concave thunders at our rage.

While, struck from nitrous clouds, fierce lightnings play,

Dart thro’ the storm, and gild the gloomy day.

Or when, in subterraneous caverns pent,

My breath, against the hollow Earth, is bent,

The quaking world above, and ghosts below,

My mighty pow’r, by dear experience, know,

Tremble with fear, and dread the fatal blow.

This is the only cure to be apply’d,

Thus to Erechtheus I should be ally’d;

And thus the scornful virgin should be woo’d,

Not by intreaty, but by force subdu’d.

Boreas, in passion, spoke these huffing things,

And, as he spoke, he shook his dreadful wings;

At which, afar the shiv’ring sea was fan’d,

And the wide surface of the distant land:

His dusty mantle o’er the hills he drew,

And swept the lowly vallies, as he flew;

Then, with his yellow wings, embrac’d the maid,

And, wrapt in dusky clouds, far off convey’d.

The sparkling blaze of Love’s prevailing fire

Shone brighter as he flew, and flam’d the higher.

And now the God, possess’d of his delight,

To northern Thrace pursu’d his airy flight,

Where the young ravish’d nymph became his bride,

And soon the luscious sweets of wedlock try’d.

Two lovely twins, th’ effect of this embrace,

Crown their soft labours, and their nuptials grace;

Who, like their mother, beautiful, and fair,

Their father’s strength, and feather’d pinions share:

Yet these, at first, were wanting, as ‘tis said,

And after, as they grew, their shoulders spread.

Zethes and Calais, the pretty twins,

Remain’d unfledg’d, while smooth their beardless chins;

But when, in time, the budding silver down

Shaded their face, and on their cheeks was grown,

Two sprouting wings upon their shoulders sprung,

Like those in birds, that veil the callow young.

Then as their age advanc’d, and they began

From greener youth to ripen into man,

With Jason’s Argonauts they cross’d the seas,

Embark’d in quest of the fam’d golden fleece;

There, with the rest, the first frail vessel try’d,

And boldly ventur’d on the swelling tide.

Book X

It seems appropriate that any discussion of Book X include these three words: love, grief, and music.

The book begins with the familiar tale of Orpheus and Eurydice: in a freak accident soon after their marriage, Eurydice is bitten by a viper and dies. Orpheus is so overcome by love and grief that he travels to the underworld to beg for his wife—which he does with a song so perfect and beautiful that it not only moves Pluto to grant Orpheus’s request, but also causes the Fates to cry for the first time.

Of course, Orpheus makes a horrible mistake on his way out of the underworld, and Eurydice is lost to him forever after all.

He wanders into the mountains to vent his grief, and begins to sing, telling story after story of ill-fated love, loss, and mourning. This song makes up the rest of Book X—and it’s not just mortals like himself who suffer in these tales. Many of the stories he sings involve the gods and their experiences with grief.

No one, it seems, is immune to love—or its ability to cause pain.

The Story of Orpheus and Eurydice

Thence, in his saffron robe, for distant Thrace,

Hymen departs, thro’ air’s unmeasur’d space;

By Orpheus call’d, the nuptial Pow’r attends,

But with ill-omen’d augury descends;

Nor chearful look’d the God, nor prosp’rous spoke,

Nor blaz’d his torch, but wept in hissing smoke.

In vain they whirl it round, in vain they shake,

No rapid motion can its flames awake.

With dread these inauspicious signs were view’d,

And soon a more disastrous end ensu’d;

For as the bride, amid the Naiad train,

Ran joyful, sporting o’er the flow’ry plain,

A venom’d viper bit her as she pass’d;

Instant she fell, and sudden breath’d her last.

When long his loss the Thracian had deplor’d,

Not by superior Pow’rs to be restor’d;

Inflam’d by love, and urg’d by deep despair,

He leaves the realms of light, and upper air;

Daring to tread the dark Tenarian road,

And tempt the shades in their obscure abode;

Thro’ gliding spectres of th’ interr’d to go,

And phantom people of the world below:

Persephone he seeks, and him who reigns

O’er ghosts, and Hell’s uncomfortable plains.

Arriv’d, he, tuning to his voice his strings,

Thus to the king and queen of shadows sings.

Ye Pow’rs, who under Earth your realms extend,

To whom all mortals must one day descend;

If here ‘tis granted sacred truth to tell:

I come not curious to explore your Hell;

Nor come to boast (by vain ambition fir’d)

How Cerberus at my approach retir’d.

My wife alone I seek; for her lov’d sake

These terrors I support, this journey take.

She, luckless wandring, or by fate mis-led,

Chanc’d on a lurking viper’s crest to tread;

The vengeful beast, enflam’d with fury, starts,

And thro’ her heel his deathful venom darts.

Thus was she snatch’d untimely to her tomb;

Her growing years cut short, and springing bloom.

Long I my loss endeavour’d to sustain,

And strongly strove, but strove, alas, in vain:

At length I yielded, won by mighty love;

Well known is that omnipotence above!

But here, I doubt, his unfelt influence fails;

And yet a hope within my heart prevails.

That here, ev’n here, he has been known of old;

At least if truth be by tradition told;

If fame of former rapes belief may find,

You both by love, and love alone, were join’d.

Now, by the horrors which these realms surround;

By the vast chaos of these depths profound;

By the sad silence which eternal reigns

O’er all the waste of these wide-stretching plains;

Let me again Eurydice receive,

Let Fate her quick-spun thread of life re-weave.

All our possessions are but loans from you,

And soon, or late, you must be paid your due;

Hither we haste to human-kind’s last seat,

Your endless empire, and our sure retreat.

She too, when ripen’d years she shall attain,

Must, of avoidless right, be yours again:

I but the transient use of that require,

Which soon, too soon, I must resign entire.

But if the destinies refuse my vow,

And no remission of her doom allow;

Know, I’m determin’d to return no more;

So both retain, or both to life restore.

Thus, while the bard melodiously complains,

And to his lyre accords his vocal strains,

The very bloodless shades attention keep,

And silent, seem compassionate to weep;

Ev’n Tantalus his flood unthirsty views,

Nor flies the stream, nor he the stream pursues;

Ixion’s wond’ring wheel its whirl suspends,

And the voracious vulture, charm’d, attends;

No more the Belides their toil bemoan,

And Sisiphus reclin’d, sits list’ning on his stone.

Then first (‘tis said) by sacred verse subdu’d,

The Furies felt their cheeks with tears bedew’d:

Nor could the rigid king, or queen of Hell,

Th’ impulse of pity in their hearts repell.

Now, from a troop of shades that last arriv’d,

Eurydice was call’d, and stood reviv’d:

Slow she advanc’d, and halting seem to feel

The fatal wound, yet painful in her heel.

Thus he obtains the suit so much desir’d,

On strict observance of the terms requir’d:

For if, before he reach the realms of air,

He backward cast his eyes to view the fair,

The forfeit grant, that instant, void is made,

And she for ever left a lifeless shade.

Now thro’ the noiseless throng their way they bend,

And both with pain the rugged road ascend;

Dark was the path, and difficult, and steep,

And thick with vapours from the smoaky deep.

They well-nigh now had pass’d the bounds of night,

And just approach’d the margin of the light,

When he, mistrusting lest her steps might stray,

And gladsome of the glympse of dawning day,

His longing eyes, impatient, backward cast

To catch a lover’s look, but look’d his last;

For, instant dying, she again descends,

While he to empty air his arms extends.

Again she dy’d, nor yet her lord reprov’d;

What could she say, but that too well he lov’d?

One last farewell she spoke, which scarce he heard;

So soon she drop’d, so sudden disappear’d.

All stunn’d he stood, when thus his wife he view’d

By second Fate, and double death subdu’d:

Not more amazement by that wretch was shown,

Whom Cerberus beholding, turn’d to stone;

Nor Olenus cou’d more astonish’d look,

When on himself Lethaea’s fault he took,

His beauteous wife, who too secure had dar’d

Her face to vye with Goddesses compar’d:

Once join’d by love, they stand united still,

Turn’d to contiguous rocks on Ida’s hill.

Now to repass the Styx in vain he tries,

Charon averse, his pressing suit denies.

Sev’n days entire, along th’ infernal shores,

Disconsolate, the bard Eurydice deplores;

Defil’d with filth his robe, with tears his cheeks,

No sustenance but grief, and cares, he seeks:

Of rigid Fate incessant he complains,

And Hell’s inexorable Gods arraigns.

This ended, to high Rhodope he hastes,

And Haemus’ mountain, bleak with northern blasts.

And now his yearly race the circling sun

Had thrice compleat thro’ wat’ry Pisces run,

Since Orpheus fled the face of womankind,

And all soft union with the sex declin’d.

Whether his ill success this change had bred,

Or binding vows made to his former bed;

Whate’er the cause, in vain the nymphs contest,

With rival eyes to warm his frozen breast:

For ev’ry nymph with love his lays inspir’d,

But ev’ry nymph repuls’d, with grief retir’d.

A hill there was, and on that hill a mead,

With verdure thick, but destitute of shade.

Where, now, the Muse’s son no sooner sings,

No sooner strikes his sweet resounding strings.

But distant groves the flying sounds receive,

And list’ning trees their rooted stations leave;

Themselves transplanting, all around they grow,

And various shades their various kinds bestow.

Here, tall Chaonian oaks their branches spread,

While weeping poplars there erect their head.

The foodful Esculus here shoots his leaves,

That turf soft lime-tree, this, fat beach receives;

Here, brittle hazels, lawrels here advance,

And there tough ash to form the heroe’s lance;

Here silver firs with knotless trunks ascend,

There, scarlet oaks beneath their acorns bend.

That spot admits the hospitable plane,

On this, the maple grows with clouded grain;

Here, watry willows are with Lotus seen;

There, tamarisk, and box for ever green.

With double hue here mirtles grace the ground,

And laurestines, with purple berries crown’d.

With pliant feet, now, ivies this way wind,

Vines yonder rise, and elms with vines entwin’d.

Wild Ornus now, the pitch-tree next takes root,

And Arbutus adorn’d with blushing fruit.

Then easy-bending palms, the victor’s prize,

And pines erect with bristly tops arise.

For Rhea grateful still the pine remains,

For Atys still some favour she retains;

He once in human shape her breast had warm’d,

And now is cherish’d, to a tree transform’d.

The Fable of Cyparissus

Amid the throng of this promiscuous wood,

With pointed top, the taper cypress stood;

A tree, which once a youth, and heav’nly fair,

Was of that deity the darling care,

Whose hand adapts, with equal skill, the strings

To bows with which he kills, and harps to which he sings.

For heretofore, a mighty stag was bred,

Which on the fertile fields of Caea fed;

In shape and size he all his kind excell’d,

And to Carthaean nymphs was sacred held.

His beamy head, with branches high display’d,

Afforded to itself an ample shade;

His horns were gilt, and his smooth neck was grac’d

With silver collars thick with gems enchas’d:

A silver boss upon his forehead hung,

And brazen pendants in his ear-rings rung.

Frequenting houses, he familiar grew,

And learnt by custom, Nature to subdue;

‘Till by degrees, of fear, and wildness, broke,

Ev’n stranger hands his proffer’d neck might stroak.

Much was the beast by Caea’s youth caress’d,

But thou, sweet Cyparissus, lov’dst him best:

By thee, to pastures fresh, he oft was led,

By thee oft water’d at the fountain’s head:

His horns with garlands, now, by thee were ty’d,

And, now, thou on his back wou’dst wanton ride;

Now here, now there wou’dst bound along the plains,

Ruling his tender mouth with purple reins.

‘Twas when the summer sun, at noon of day,

Thro’ glowing Cancer shot his burning ray,

‘Twas then, the fav’rite stag, in cool retreat,

Had sought a shelter from the scorching heat;

Along the grass his weary limbs he laid,

Inhaling freshness from the breezy shade:

When Cyparissus with his pointed dart,

Unknowing, pierc’d him to the panting heart.

But when the youth, surpriz’d, his error found,

And saw him dying of the cruel wound,

Himself he would have slain thro’ desp’rate grief:

What said not Phoebus, that might yield relief!

To cease his mourning, he the boy desir’d,

Or mourn no more than such a loss requir’d.

But he, incessant griev’d: at length address’d

To the superior Pow’rs a last request;

Praying, in expiation of his crime,

Thenceforth to mourn to all succeeding time.

And now, of blood exhausted he appears,

Drain’d by a torrent of continual tears;

The fleshy colour in his body fades,

And a green tincture all his limbs invades;

From his fair head, where curling locks late hung,

A horrid bush with bristled branches sprung,

Which stiffning by degrees, its stem extends,

‘Till to the starry skies the spire ascends.

Apollo sad look’d on, and sighing, cry’d,

Then, be for ever, what thy pray’r imply’d:

Bemoan’d by me, in others grief excite;

And still preside at ev’ry fun’ral rite.

Thus the sweet artist in a wondrous shade

Of verdant trees, which harmony had made,

Encircled sate, with his own triumphs crown’d,

Of listning birds, and savages around.

Again the trembling strings he dext’rous tries,

Again from discord makes soft musick rise.

Then tunes his voice: O Muse, from whom I sprung,

Jove be my theme, and thou inspire my song.

To Jove my grateful voice I oft have rais’d,

Oft his almighty pow’r with pleasure prais’d.

I sung the giants in a solemn strain,

Blasted, and thunder-struck on Phlegra’s plain.

Now be my lyre in softer accents mov’d,

To sing of blooming boys by Gods belov’d;

And to relate what virgins, void of shame,

Have suffer’d vengeance for a lawless flame.

The King of Gods once felt the burning joy,

And sigh’d for lovely Ganimede of Troy:

Long was he puzzled to assume a shape

Most fit, and expeditious for the rape;

A bird’s was proper, yet he scorns to wear

Any but that which might his thunder bear.

Down with his masquerading wings he flies,

And bears the little Trojan to the skies;

Where now, in robes of heav’nly purple drest,

He serves the nectar at th’ Almighty’s feast,

To slighted Juno an unwelcome guest.

Hyacinthus transform’d into a Flower

Phoebus for thee too, Hyacinth, design’d

A place among the Gods, had Fate been kind:

Yet this he gave; as oft as wintry rains

Are past, and vernal breezes sooth the plains,

From the green turf a purple flow’r you rise,

And with your fragrant breath perfume the skies.

You when alive were Phoebus’ darling boy;

In you he plac’d his Heav’n, and fix’d his joy:

Their God the Delphic priests consult in vain;

Eurotas now he loves, and Sparta’s plain:

His hands the use of bow and harp forget,

And hold the dogs, or bear the corded net;

O’er hanging cliffs swift he pursues the game;

Each hour his pleasure, each augments his flame.

The mid-day sun now shone with equal light

Between the past, and the succeeding night;

They strip, then, smooth’d with suppling oyl, essay

To pitch the rounded quoit, their wonted play:

A well-pois’d disk first hasty Phoebus threw,

It cleft the air, and whistled as it flew;

It reach’d the mark, a most surprizing length;

Which spoke an equal share of art, and strength.

Scarce was it fall’n, when with too eager hand

Young Hyacinth ran to snatch it from the sand;

But the curst orb, which met a stony soil,

Flew in his face with violent recoil.

Both faint, both pale, and breathless now appear,

The boy with pain, the am’rous God with fear.

He ran, and rais’d him bleeding from the ground,

Chafes his cold limbs, and wipes the fatal wound:

Then herbs of noblest juice in vain applies;

The wound is mortal, and his skill defies.

As in a water’d garden’s blooming walk,

When some rude hand has bruis’d its tender stalk,

A fading lilly droops its languid head,

And bends to earth, its life, and beauty fled:

So Hyacinth, with head reclin’d, decays,

And, sickning, now no more his charms displays.

O thou art gone, my boy, Apollo cry’d,

Defrauded of thy youth in all its pride!

Thou, once my joy, art all my sorrow now;

And to my guilty hand my grief I owe.

Yet from my self I might the fault remove,

Unless to sport, and play, a fault should prove,

Unless it too were call’d a fault to love.

Oh cou’d I for thee, or but with thee, dye!

But cruel Fates to me that pow’r deny.

Yet on my tongue thou shalt for ever dwell;

Thy name my lyre shall sound, my verse shall tell;

And to a flow’r transform’d, unheard-of yet,

Stamp’d on thy leaves my cries thou shalt repeat.

The time shall come, prophetick I foreknow,

When, joyn’d to thee, a mighty chief shall grow,

And with my plaints his name thy leaf shall show.

While Phoebus thus the laws of Fate reveal’d,

Behold, the blood which stain’d the verdant field,

Is blood no longer; but a flow’r full blown,

Far brighter than the Tyrian scarlet shone.

A lilly’s form it took; its purple hue

Was all that made a diff’rence to the view,

Nor stop’d he here; the God upon its leaves

The sad expression of his sorrow weaves;

And to this hour the mournful purple wears

Ai, Ai, inscrib’d in funeral characters.

Nor are the Spartans, who so much are fam’d

For virtue, of their Hyacinth asham’d;

But still with pompous woe, and solemn state,

The Hyacinthian feasts they yearly celebrate

The Transformations of the Cerastae and Propoetides

Enquire of Amathus, whose wealthy ground

With veins of every metal does abound,

If she to her Propoetides wou’d show,

The honour Sparta does to him allow?

Nor more, she’d say, such wretches wou’d we grace,

Than those whose crooked horns deform’d their face,

From thence Cerastae call’d, an impious race:

Before whose gates a rev’rend altar stood,

To Jove inscrib’d, the hospitable God:

This had some stranger seen with gore besmear’d,

The blood of lambs, and bulls it had appear’d:

Their slaughter’d guests it was; nor flock nor herd.

Venus these barb’rous sacrifices view’d

With just abhorrence, and with wrath pursu’d:

At first, to punish such nefarious crimes,

Their towns she meant to leave, her once-lov’d climes:

But why, said she, for their offence shou’d I

My dear delightful plains, and cities fly?

No, let the impious people, who have sinn’d,

A punishment in death, or exile, find:

If death, or exile too severe be thought,

Let them in some vile shape bemoan their fault.

While next her mind a proper form employs,

Admonish’d by their horns, she fix’d her choice.

Their former crest remains upon their heads,

And their strong limbs an ox’s shape invades.

The blasphemous Propoetides deny’d

Worship of Venus, and her pow’r defy’d:

But soon that pow’r they felt, the first that sold

Their lewd embraces to the world for gold.

Unknowing how to blush, and shameless grown,

A small transition changes them to stone.

The Story of Pygmalion and the Statue

Pygmalion loathing their lascivious life,

Abhorr’d all womankind, but most a wife:

So single chose to live, and shunn’d to wed,

Well pleas’d to want a consort of his bed.

Yet fearing idleness, the nurse of ill,

In sculpture exercis’d his happy skill;

And carv’d in iv’ry such a maid, so fair,

As Nature could not with his art compare,

Were she to work; but in her own defence

Must take her pattern here, and copy hence.

Pleas’d with his idol, he commends, admires,

Adores; and last, the thing ador’d, desires.

A very virgin in her face was seen,

And had she mov’d, a living maid had been:

One wou’d have thought she cou’d have stirr’d, but strove

With modesty, and was asham’d to move.

Art hid with art, so well perform’d the cheat,

It caught the carver with his own deceit:

He knows ‘tis madness, yet he must adore,

And still the more he knows it, loves the more:

The flesh, or what so seems, he touches oft,

Which feels so smooth, that he believes it soft.

Fir’d with this thought, at once he strain’d the breast,

And on the lips a burning kiss impress’d.

‘Tis true, the harden’d breast resists the gripe,

And the cold lips return a kiss unripe:

But when, retiring back, he look’d again,

To think it iv’ry, was a thought too mean:

So wou’d believe she kiss’d, and courting more,

Again embrac’d her naked body o’er;

And straining hard the statue, was afraid

His hands had made a dint, and hurt his maid:

Explor’d her limb by limb, and fear’d to find

So rude a gripe had left a livid mark behind:

With flatt’ry now he seeks her mind to move,

And now with gifts (the pow’rful bribes of love),

He furnishes her closet first; and fills

The crowded shelves with rarities of shells;

Adds orient pearls, which from the conchs he drew,

And all the sparkling stones of various hue:

And parrots, imitating human tongue,

And singing-birds in silver cages hung:

And ev’ry fragrant flow’r, and od’rous green,

Were sorted well, with lumps of amber laid between:

Rich fashionable robes her person deck,

Pendants her ears, and pearls adorn her neck:

Her taper’d fingers too with rings are grac’d,

And an embroider’d zone surrounds her slender waste.

Thus like a queen array’d, so richly dress’d,

Beauteous she shew’d, but naked shew’d the best.

Then, from the floor, he rais’d a royal bed,

With cov’rings of Sydonian purple spread:

The solemn rites perform’d, he calls her bride,

With blandishments invites her to his side;

And as she were with vital sense possess’d,

Her head did on a plumy pillow rest.

The feast of Venus came, a solemn day,

To which the Cypriots due devotion pay;

With gilded horns the milk-white heifers led,

Slaughter’d before the sacred altars, bled.

Pygmalion off’ring, first approach’d the shrine,

And then with pray’rs implor’d the Pow’rs divine:

Almighty Gods, if all we mortals want,

If all we can require, be yours to grant;

Make this fair statue mine, he wou’d have said,

But chang’d his words for shame; and only pray’d,

Give me the likeness of my iv’ry maid.

The golden Goddess, present at the pray’r,

Well knew he meant th’ inanimated fair,

And gave the sign of granting his desire;

For thrice in chearful flames ascends the fire.

The youth, returning to his mistress, hies,

And impudent in hope, with ardent eyes,

And beating breast, by the dear statue lies.

He kisses her white lips, renews the bliss,

And looks, and thinks they redden at the kiss;

He thought them warm before: nor longer stays,

But next his hand on her hard bosom lays:

Hard as it was, beginning to relent,

It seem’d, the breast beneath his fingers bent;

He felt again, his fingers made a print;

‘Twas flesh, but flesh so firm, it rose against the dint:

The pleasing task he fails not to renew;

Soft, and more soft at ev’ry touch it grew;

Like pliant wax, when chasing hands reduce

The former mass to form, and frame for use.

He would believe, but yet is still in pain,

And tries his argument of sense again,

Presses the pulse, and feels the leaping vein.

Convinc’d, o’erjoy’d, his studied thanks, and praise,

To her, who made the miracle, he pays:

Then lips to lips he join’d; now freed from fear,

He found the savour of the kiss sincere:

At this the waken’d image op’d her eyes,

And view’d at once the light, and lover with surprize.

The Goddess, present at the match she made,

So bless’d the bed, such fruitfulness convey’d,

That ere ten months had sharpen’d either horn,

To crown their bliss, a lovely boy was born;

Paphos his name, who grown to manhood, wall’d

The city Paphos, from the founder call’d.

The Story of of Cinyras and Myrrha

Nor him alone produc’d the fruitful queen;

But Cinyras, who like his sire had been

A happy prince, had he not been a sire.

Daughters, and fathers, from my song retire;

I sing of horror; and could I prevail,

You shou’d not hear, or not believe my tale.

Yet if the pleasure of my song be such,

That you will hear, and credit me too much,

Attentive listen to the last event,

And, with the sin, believe the punishment:

Since Nature cou’d behold so dire a crime,

I gratulate at least my native clime,

That such a land, which such a monster bore,

So far is distant from our Thracian shore.

Let Araby extol her happy coast,

Her cinamon, and sweet Amomum boast,

Her fragrant flow’rs, her trees with precious tears,

Her second harvests, and her double years;

How can the land be call’d so bless’d, that Myrrha bears?

Nor all her od’rous tears can cleanse her crime;

Her Plant alone deforms the happy clime:

Cupid denies to have inflam’d thy heart,

Disowns thy love, and vindicates his dart:

Some Fury gave thee those infernal pains,

And shot her venom’d vipers in thy veins.

To hate thy sire, had merited a curse;

But such an impious love deserv’d a worse.

The neighb’ring monarchs, by thy beauty led,

Contend in crowds, ambitious of thy bed:

The world is at thy choice; except but one,

Except but him, thou canst not chuse, alone.

She knew it too, the miserable maid,

Ere impious love her better thoughts betray’d,

And thus within her secret soul she said:

Ah Myrrha! whither wou’d thy wishes tend?

Ye Gods, ye sacred laws, my soul defend

From such a crime as all mankind detest,

And never lodg’d before in human breast!

But is it sin? Or makes my mind alone

Th’ imagin’d sin? For Nature makes it none.

What tyrant then these envious laws began,

Made not for any other beast, but Man!

The father-bull his daughter may bestride,

The horse may make his mother-mare a bride;

What piety forbids the lusty ram,

Or more salacious goat, to rut their dam?

The hen is free to wed the chick she bore,

And make a husband, whom she hatch’d before.

All creatures else are of a happier kind,

Whom nor ill-natur’d laws from pleasure bind,

Nor thoughts of sin disturb their peace of mind.

But Man a slave of his own making lives;

The fool denies himself what Nature gives:

Too-busie senates, with an over-care,

To make us better than our kind can bear,

Have dash’d a spice of envy in the laws,

And straining up too high, have spoil’d the cause.

Yet some wise nations break their cruel chains,

And own no laws, but those which love ordains;

Where happy daughters with their sires are join’d,

And piety is doubly paid in kind.

O that I had been born in such a clime,

Not here, where ‘tis the country makes the crime!

But whither wou’d my impious fancy stray?

Hence hopes, and ye forbidden thoughts away!

His worth deserves to kindle my desires,

But with the love, that daughters bear to sires.

Then had not Cinyras my father been,

What hinder’d Myrrha’s hopes to be his queen?

But the perverseness of my fate is such,

That he’s not mine, because he’s mine too much:

Our kindred-blood debars a better tie;

He might be nearer, were he not so nigh.

Eyes, and their objects, never must unite;

Some distance is requir’d to help the sight:

Fain wou’d I travel to some foreign shore,

Never to see my native country more,

So might I to my self my self restore;

So might my mind these impious thoughts remove,

And ceasing to behold, might cease to love.

But stay I must, to feed my famish’d sight,

To talk, to kiss, and more, if more I might:

More, impious maid! What more canst thou design?

To make a monstrous mixture in thy line,

And break all statutes human and divine!

Can’st thou be call’d (to save thy wretched life)

Thy mother’s rival, and thy father’s wife?

Confound so many sacred names in one,

Thy brother’s mother! Sister to thy son!

And fear’st thou not to see th’ infernal bands,

Their heads with snakes; with torches arm’d their hands

Full at thy face th’ avenging brands to bear,

And shake the serpents from their hissing hair;

But thou in time th’ increasing ill controul,

Nor first debauch the body by the soul;

Secure the sacred quiet of thy mind,

And keep the sanctions Nature has design’d.

Suppose I shou’d attempt, th’ attempt were vain,

No thoughts like mine, his sinless soul profane;

Observant of the right: and o that he

Cou’d cure my madness, or be mad like me!

Thus she: but Cinyras, who daily sees

A crowd of noble suitors at his knees,

Among so many, knew not whom to chuse,

Irresolute to grant, or to refuse.

But having told their names, enquir’d of her

Who pleas’d her best, and whom she would prefer.

The blushing maid stood silent with surprize,

And on her father fix’d her ardent eyes,

And looking sigh’d, and as she sigh’d, began

Round tears to shed, that scalded as they ran.

The tender sire, who saw her blush, and cry,

Ascrib’d it all to maiden modesty,

And dry’d the falling drops, and yet more kind,

He stroak’d her cheeks, and holy kisses join’d.

She felt a secret venom fire her blood,

And found more pleasure, than a daughter shou’d;

And, ask’d again what lover of the crew

She lik’d the best, she answer’d, One like you.

Mistaking what she meant, her pious will

He prais’d, and bid her so continue still:

The word of pious heard, she blush’d with shame

Of secret guilt, and cou’d not bear the name.

‘Twas now the mid of night, when slumbers close

Our eyes, and sooth our cares with soft repose;

But no repose cou’d wretched Myrrha find,

Her body rouling, as she roul’d her mind:

Mad with desire, she ruminates her sin,

And wishes all her wishes o’er again:

Now she despairs, and now resolves to try;

Wou’d not, and wou’d again, she knows not why;

Stops, and returns; makes, and retracts the vow;

Fain wou’d begin, but understands not how.

As when a pine is hew’d upon the plains,

And the last mortal stroke alone remains,

Lab’ring in pangs of death, and threatning all,

This way, and that she nods, consid’ring where to fall:

So Myrrha’s mind, impell’d on either side,

Takes ev’ry bent, but cannot long abide;

Irresolute on which she shou’d relie,

At last, unfix’d in all, is only fix’d to die.

On that sad thought she rests, resolv’d on death,

She rises, and prepares to choak her breath:

Then while about the beam her zone she ties,

Dear Cinyras farewell, she softly cries;

For thee I die, and only wish to be

Not hated, when thou know’st die I for thee:

Pardon the crime, in pity to the cause:

This said, about her neck the noose she draws.

The nurse, who lay without, her faithful guard,

Though not the words, the murmurs over-heard;

And sighs, and hollow sounds: surpriz’d with fright,

She starts, and leaves her bed, and springs a light;

Unlocks the door, and entring out of breath,

The dying saw, and instruments of death;

She shrieks, she cuts the zone with trembling haste,

And in her arms her fainting charge embrac’d:

Next (for she now had leisure for her tears),

She weeping ask’d, in these her blooming years,

What unforeseen misfortune caus’d her care,

To loath her life, and languish in despair!

The maid, with down-cast eyes, and mute with grief

For death unfinish’d, and ill-tim’d relief,

Stood sullen to her suit: the beldame press’d

The more to know, and bar’d her wither’d breast,

Adjur’d her by the kindly food she drew

From those dry founts, her secret ill to shew.

Sad Myrrha sigh’d, and turn’d her eyes aside:

The nurse still urg’d, and wou’d not be deny’d:

Nor only promis’d secresie, but pray’d

She might have leave to give her offer’d aid.

Good-will, she said, my want of strength supplies,

And diligence shall give what age denies:

If strong desires thy mind to fury move,

With charms and med’cines I can cure thy love:

If envious eyes their hurtuful rays have cast,

More pow’rful verse shall free thee from the blast:

If Heav’n offended sends thee this disease,

Offended Heav’n with pray’rs we can appease.

What then remains, that can these cares procure?

Thy house is flourishing, thy fortune sure:

Thy careful mother yet in health survives,

And, to thy comfort, thy kind father lives.

The virgin started at her father’s name,

And sigh’d profoundly, conscious of the shame

Nor yet the nurse her impious love divin’d,

But yet surmis’d that love disturb’d her mind:

Thus thinking, she pursu’d her point, and laid,

And lull’d within her lap the mourning maid;

Then softly sooth’d her thus; I guess your grief:

You love, my child; your love shall find relief.

My long-experienc’d age shall be your guide;

Rely on that, and lay distrust aside.

No breath of air shall on the secret blow,

Nor shall (what most you fear) your father know.

Struck once again, as with a thunder-clap,

The guilty virgin bounded from her lap,

And threw her body prostrate on the bed.

And, to conceal her blushes, hid her head;

There silent lay, and warn’d her with her hand

To go: but she receiv’d not the command;

Remaining still importunate to know:

Then Myrrha thus: Or ask no more, or go;

I pr’ythee go, or staying spare my shame;

What thou would’st hear, is impious ev’n to name.

At this, on high the beldame holds her hands,

And trembling both with age, and terror stands;

Adjures, and falling at her feet intreats,

Sooths her with blandishments, and frights with threats,

To tell the crime intended, or disclose

What part of it she knew, if she no farther knows.

And last, if conscious to her counsel made,

Confirms anew the promise of her aid.

Now Myrrha rais’d her head; but soon oppress’d

With shame, reclin’d it on her nurse’s breast;

Bath’d it with tears, and strove to have confess’d:

Twice she began, and stopp’d; again she try’d;

The falt’ring tongue its office still deny’d.

At last her veil before her face she spread,

And drew a long preluding sigh, and said,

O happy mother, in thy marriage-bed!

Then groan’d, and ceas’d. The good old woman shook,

Stiff were her eyes, and ghastly was her look:

Her hoary hair upright with horror stood,

Made (to her grief) more knowing than she wou’d.

Much she reproach’d, and many things she said,

To cure the madness of th’ unhappy maid,

In vain: for Myrrha stood convict of ill;

Her reason vanquish’d, but unchang’d her will:

Perverse of mind, unable to reply;

She stood resolv’d, or to possess, or die.

At length the fondness of a nurse prevail’d

Against her better sense, and virtue fail’d:

Enjoy, my child, since such is thy desire,

Thy love, she said; she durst not say, thy sire:

Live, though unhappy, live on any terms;

Then with a second oath her faith confirms.

The solemn feast of Ceres now was near,

When long white linnen stoles the matrons wear;

Rank’d in procession walk the pious train,

Off’ring first-fruits, and spikes of yellow grain:

For nine long nights the nuptial-bed they shun,

And sanctifying harvest, lie alone.

Mix’d with the crowd, the queen forsook her lord,

And Ceres’ pow’r with secret rites ador’d:

The royal couch, now vacant for a time,

The crafty crone, officious in her crime,

The first occasion took: the king she found

Easie with wine, and deep in pleasures drown’d,

Prepar’d for love: the beldame blew the flame,

Confess’d the passion, but conceal’d the name.

Her form she prais’d; the monarch ask’d her years;

And she reply’d, The same thy Myrrha bears.

Wine, and commended beauty fir’d his thought;

Impatient, he commands her to be brought.

Pleas’d with her charge perform’d, she hies her home,

And gratulates the nymph, the task was overcome.

Myrrha was joy’d the welcome news to hear;

But clog’d with guilt, the joy was unsincere:

So various, so discordant is the mind,

That in our will a diff’rent will we find.

Ill she presag’d, and yet pursu’d her lust;

For guilty pleasures give a double gust.

‘Twas depth of night: Arctophylax had driv’n

His lazy wain half round the northern Heav’n,

When Myrrha hasten’d to the crime desir’d:

The moon beheld her first, and first retir’d:

The stars amaz’d, ran backward from the sight,

And (shrunk within their sockets) lost their light.

Icarius first withdraws his holy flame:

The virgin sign, in Heav’n the second name,

Slides down the belt, and from her station flies,

And night with sable clouds involves the skies.

Bold Myrrha still pursues her black intent;

She stumbled thrice (an omen of th’ event);

Thrice shriek’d the fun’ral owl, yet on she went,

Secure of shame, because secure of sight;

Ev’n bashful sins are impudent by night.

Link’d hand in hand, th’ accomplice, and the dame,

Their way exploring, to the chamber came:

The door was ope; they blindly grope their way,

Where dark in bed th’ expecting monarch lay.

Thus far her courage held, but here forsakes;

Her faint knees knock at ev’ry step she makes.

The nearer to her crime, the more within

She feels remorse, and horror of her sin;

Repents too late her criminal desire,

And wishes, that unknown she could retire.

Her lingring thus, the nurse (who fear’d delay

The fatal secret might at length betray)

Pull’d forward, to compleat the work begun,

And said to Cinyras, Receive thy own.

Thus saying, she deliver’d kind to kind,

Accurs’d, and their devoted bodies join’d.

The sire, unknowing of the crime, admits

His bowels, and prophanes the hallow’d sheets;

He found she trembled, but believ’d she strove

With maiden modesty against her love,

And sought with flatt’ring words vain fancies to remove.

Perhaps he said, My daughter, cease thy fears

(Because the title suited with her years);

And, Father, she might whisper him again,

That names might not be wanting to the sin.

Full of her sire, she left th’ incestuous bed,

And carry’d in her womb the crime she bred.

Another, and another night she came;

For frequent sin had left no sense of shame:

‘Till Cinyras desir’d to see her face,

Whose body he had held in close embrace,

And brought a taper; the revealer, light,

Expos’d both crime, and criminal to sight.

Grief, rage, amazement, could no speech afford,

But from the sheath he drew th’ avenging sword:

The guilty fled: the benefit of night,

That favour’d first the sin, secur’d the flight.

Long wand’ring thro’ the spacious fields, she bent

Her voyage to th’ Arabian continent;

Then pass’d the region which Panchaea join’d,

And flying, left the palmy plains behind.

Nine times the moon had mew’d her horns; at length

With travel weary, unsupply’d with strength,

And with the burden of her womb oppress’d,

Sabaean fields afford her needful rest:

There, loathing life, and yet of death afraid,

In anguish of her spirit, thus she pray’d:

Ye Pow’rs, if any so propitious are

T’ accept my penitence, and hear my pray’r;

Your judgments, I confess, are justly sent;

Great sins deserve as great a punishment:

Yet since my life the living will profane,

And since my death the happy dead will stain,

A middle state your mercy may bestow,

Betwixt the realms above, and those below:

Some other form to wretched Myrrha give,

Nor let her wholly die, nor wholly live.

The pray’rs of penitents are never vain;

At least she did her last request obtain:

For while she spoke, the ground began to rise,

And gather’d round her feet, her legs, and thighs;

Her toes in roots descend, and spreading wide,

A firm foundation for the trunk provide:

Her solid bones convert to solid wood,

To pith her marrow, and to sap her blood:

Her arms are boughs, her fingers change their kind,

Her tender skin is harden’d into rind.

And now the rising tree her womb invests,

Now shooting upwards still, invades her breasts,

And shades the neck; when weary with delay,

She sunk her head within, and met it half the way.

And tho’ with outward shape she lost her sense,

With bitter tears she wept her last offence;

And still she weeps, nor sheds her tears in vain;

For still the precious drops her name retain.

Mean-time the mis-begotten infant grows,

And ripe for birth, distends with deadly throes

The swelling rind, with unavailing strife,

To leave the wooden womb, and pushes into life.

The mother-tree, as if oppress’d with pain,

Writhes here, and there, to break the bark, in vain;

And, like a lab’ring woman, wou’d have pray’d,

But wants a voice to call Lucina’s aid:

The bending bole sends out a hollow sound,

And trickling tears fall thicker on the ground.

The mild Lucina came uncall’d, and stood

Beside the struggling boughs, and heard the groaning wood;

Then reach’d her midwife-hand to speed the throes,

And spoke the pow’rful spells, that babes to birth disclose.

The bark divides, the living load to free,

And safe delivers the convulsive tree.

The ready nymphs receive the crying child,

And wash him in the tears the parent plant distill’d.

They swath’d him with their scarfs; beneath him spread

The ground with herbs; with roses rais’d his head.

The lovely babe was born with ev’ry grace,

Ev’n envy must have prais’d so fair a face:

Such was his form, as painters when they show

Their utmost art, on naked loves bestow:

And that their arms no diff’rence might betray,

Give him a bow, or his from Cupid take away.

Time glides along with undiscover’d haste,

The future but a length behind the past;

So swift are years. The babe, whom just before

His grandsire got, and whom his sister bore;

The drop, the thing, which late the tree inclos’d,

And late the yawning bark to life expos’d;

A babe, a boy, a beauteous youth appears,

And lovelier than himself at riper years.

Now to the queen of love he gave desires,

And, with her pains, reveng’d his mother’s fires.

The Story of Venus and Adonis

For Cytherea’s lips while Cupid prest,

He with a heedless arrow raz’d her breast,

The Goddess felt it, and with fury stung,

The wanton mischief from her bosom flung:

Yet thought at first the danger slight, but found

The dart too faithful, and too deep the wound.

Fir’d with a mortal beauty, she disdains

To haunt th’ Idalian mount, or Phrygian plains.

She seeks not Cnidos, nor her Paphian shrines,

Nor Amathus, that teems with brazen mines:

Ev’n Heav’n itself with all its sweets unsought,

Adonis far a sweeter Heav’n is thought.

On him she hangs, and fonds with ev’ry art,

And never, never knows from him to part.

She, whose soft limbs had only been display’d

On rosie beds beneath the myrtle shade,

Whose pleasing care was to improve each grace,

And add more charms to an unrival’d face,

Now buskin’d, like the virgin huntress, goes

Thro’ woods, and pathless wilds, and mountain-snows

With her own tuneful voice she joys to cheer

The panting hounds, that chace the flying deer.

She runs the labyrinth of fearful hares,

But fearless beasts, and dang’rous prey forbears,

Hunts not the grinning wolf, or foamy boar,

And trembles at the lion’s hungry roar.

Thee too, Adonis, with a lover’s care

She warns, if warn’d thou wou’dst avoid the snare,

To furious animals advance not nigh,

Fly those that follow, follow those that fly;

‘Tis chance alone must the survivors save,

Whene’er brave spirits will attempt the brave.

O! lovely youth! in harmless sports delight;

Provoke not beasts, which, arm’d by Nature, fight.

For me, if not thy self, vouchsafe to fear;

Let not thy thirst of glory cost me dear.

Boars know not bow to spare a blooming age;

No sparkling eyes can sooth the lion’s rage.

Not all thy charms a savage breast can move,

Which have so deeply touch’d the queen of love.

When bristled boars from beaten thickets spring,

In grinded tusks a thunderbolt they bring.

The daring hunters lions rouz’d devour,

Vast is their fury, and as vast their pow’r:

Curst be their tawny race! If thou would’st hear

What kindled thus my hate, then lend an ear:

The wond’rous tale I will to thee unfold,

How the fell monsters rose from crimes of old.

But by long toils I faint: see! wide-display’d,

A grateful poplar courts us with a shade.

The grassy turf, beneath, so verdant shows,

We may secure delightfully repose.

With her Adonis here be Venus blest;

And swift at once the grass and him she prest.

Then sweetly smiling, with a raptur’d mind,

On his lov’d bosom she her head reclin’d,

And thus began; but mindful still of bliss,

Seal’d the soft accents with a softer kiss.

Perhaps thou may’st have heard a virgin’s name,

Who still in swiftness swiftest youths o’ercame.

Wondrous! that female weakness should outdo

A manly strength; the wonder yet is true.

‘Twas doubtful, if her triumphs in the field

Did to her form’s triumphant glories yield;

Whether her face could with more ease decoy

A crowd of lovers, or her feet destroy.

For once Apollo she implor’d to show

If courteous Fates a consort would allow:

A consort brings thy ruin, he reply’d;

O! learn to want the pleasures of a bride!

Nor shalt thou want them to thy wretched cost,

And Atalanta living shall be lost.

With such a rueful Fate th’ affrighted maid

Sought green recesses in the wood-land glade.

Nor sighing suiters her resolves could move,

She bad them show their speed, to show their love.

He only, who could conquer in the race,

Might hope the conquer’d virgin to embrace;

While he, whose tardy feet had lagg’d behind,

Was doom’d the sad reward of death to find.

Tho’ great the prize, yet rigid the decree,

But blind with beauty, who can rigour see?

Ev’n on these laws the fair they rashly sought,

And danger in excess of love forgot.

There sat Hippomenes, prepar’d to blame

In lovers such extravagance of flame.

And must, he said, the blessing of a wife

Be dearly purchas’d by a risk of life?

But when he saw the wonders of her face,

And her limbs naked, springing to the race,

Her limbs, as exquisitely turn’d, as mine,

Or if a woman thou, might vie with thine,

With lifted hands, he cry’d, forgive the tongue

Which durst, ye youths, your well-tim’d courage wrong.

I knew not that the nymph, for whom you strove,

Deserv’d th’ unbounded transports of your love.

He saw, admir’d, and thus her spotless frame

He prais’d, and praising, kindled his own flame.

A rival now to all the youths who run,

Envious, he fears they should not be undone.

But why (reflects he) idly thus is shown

The fate of others, yet untry’d my own?

The coward must not on love’s aid depend;

The God was ever to the bold a friend.

Mean-time the virgin flies, or seems to fly,

Swift as a Scythian arrow cleaves the sky:

Still more and more the youth her charms admires.

The race itself t’ exalt her charms conspires.

The golden pinions, which her feet adorn,

In wanton flutt’rings by the winds are born.

Down from her head, the long, fair tresses flow,

And sport with lovely negligence below.

The waving ribbands, which her buskins tie,

Her snowy skin with waving purple die;

As crimson veils in palaces display’d,

To the white marble lend a blushing shade.

Nor long he gaz’d, yet while he gaz’d, she gain’d

The goal, and the victorious wreath obtain’d.

The vanquish’d sigh, and, as the law decreed,

Pay the dire forfeit, and prepare to bleed.

Then rose Hippomenes, not yet afraid,

And fix’d his eyes full on the beauteous maid.

Where is (he cry’d) the mighty conquest won,

To distance those, who want the nerves to run?

Here prove superior strength, nor shall it be

Thy loss of glory, if excell’d by me.

High my descent, near Neptune I aspire,

For Neptune was grand-parent to my sire.

From that great God the fourth my self I trace,

Nor sink my virtues yet beneath my race.

Thou from Hippomenes, o’ercome, may’st claim

An envy’d triumph, and a deathless fame.

While thus the youth the virgin pow’r defies,

Silent she views him still with softer eyes.

Thoughts in her breast a doubtful strife begin,

If ‘tis not happier now to lose, than win.

What God, a foe to beauty, would destroy

The promis’d ripeness of this blooming boy?

With his life’s danger does he seek my bed?

Scarce am I half so greatly worth, she said.

Nor has his beauty mov’d my breast to love,

And yet, I own, such beauty well might move:

‘Tis not his charms, ‘tis pity would engage

My soul to spare the greenness of his age.

What, that heroick conrage fires his breast,

And shines thro’ brave disdain of Fate confest?

What, that his patronage by close degrees

Springs from th’ imperial ruler of the seas?

Then add the love, which bids him undertake

The race, and dare to perish for my sake.

Of bloody nuptials, heedless youth, beware!

Fly, timely fly from a too barb’rous fair.

At pleasure chuse; thy love will be repaid

By a less foolish, and more beauteous maid.

But why this tenderness, before unknown?

Why beats, and pants my breast for him alone?

His eyes have seen his num’rous rivals yield;

Let him too share the rigour of the field,

Since, by their fates untaught, his own he courts,

And thus with ruin insolently sports.

Yet for what crime shall he his death receive?

Is it a crime with me to wish to live?

Shall his kind passion his destruction prove?

Is this the fatal recompence of love?

So fair a youth, destroy’d, would conquest shame,

Aud nymphs eternally detest my fame.

Still why should nymphs my guiltless fame upbraid?

Did I the fond adventurer persuade?

Alas! I wish thou would’st the course decline,

Or that my swiftness was excell’d by thine.

See! what a virgin’s bloom adorns the boy!

Why wilt thou run, and why thy self destroy?

Hippomenes! O that I ne’er had been

By those bright eyes unfortunately seen!

Ah! tempt not thus a swift, untimely Fate;

Thy life is worthy of the longest date.

Were I less wretched, did the galling chain

Of rigid Gods not my free choice restrain,

By thee alone I could with joy be led

To taste the raptures of a nuptial bed.

Thus she disclos’d the woman’s secret heart,

Young, innocent, and new to Cupid’s dart.

Her thoughts, her words, her actions wildly rove,

With love she burns, yet knows not that ‘tis love.

Her royal sire now with the murm’ring crowd

Demands the race impatiently aloud.

Hippomenes then with true fervour pray’d,

My bold attempt let Venus kindly aid.

By her sweet pow’r I felt this am’rous fire,

Still may she succour, whom she did inspire.

A soft, unenvious wind, with speedy care,

Wafted to Heav’n the lover’s tender pray’r.

Pity, I own, soon gain’d the wish’d consent,

And all th’ assistance he implor’d I lent.

The Cyprian lands, tho’ rich, in richness yield

To that, surnam’d the Tamasenian field.

That field of old was added to my shrine,

And its choice products consecrated mine.

A tree there stands, full glorious to behold,

Gold are the leafs, the crackling branches gold.

It chanc’d, three apples in my hand I bore,

Which newly from the tree I sportive tore;

Seen by the youth alone, to him I brought

The fruit, and when, and how to use it, taught.

The signal sounding by the king’s command,

Both start at once, and sweep th’ imprinted sand.

So swiftly mov’d their feet, they might with ease,

Scarce moisten’d, skim along the glassy seas;

Or with a wondrous levity be born

O’er yellow harvests of unbending corn.

Now fav’ring peals resound from ev’ry part,

Spirit the youth, and fire his fainting heart.

Hippomenes! (they cry’d) thy life preserve,

Intensely labour, and stretch ev’ry nerve.

Base fear alone can baffle thy design,

Shoot boldly onward, and the goal is thine.

‘Tis doubtful whether shouts, like these, convey’d

More pleasures to the youth, or to the maid.

When a long distance oft she could have gain’d,

She check’d her swiftness, and her feet restrain’d:

She sigh’d, and dwelt, and languish’d on his face,

Then with unwilling speed pursu’d the race.

O’er-spent with heat, his breath he faintly drew,

Parch’d was his mouth, nor yet the goal in view,

And the first apple on the plain he threw.

The nymph stop’d sudden at th’ unusual sight,

Struck with the fruit so beautifully bright.

Aside she starts, the wonder to behold,

And eager stoops to catch the rouling gold.

Th’ observant youth past by, and scour’d along,

While peals of joy rung from th’ applauding throng.

Unkindly she corrects the short delay,

And to redeem the time fleets swift away,

Swift, as the lightning, or the northern wind,

And far she leaves the panting youth behind.

Again he strives the flying nymph to hold

With the temptation of the second gold:

The bright temptation fruitlessly was tost,

So soon, alas! she won the distance lost.

Now but a little interval of space

Remain’d for the decision of the race.

Fair author of the precious gift, he said,

Be thou, O Goddess, author of my aid!

Then of the shining fruit the last he drew,

And with his full-collected vigour threw:

The virgin still the longer to detain,

Threw not directly, but a-cross the plain.

She seem’d a-while perplex’d in dubious thought,

If the far-distant apple should be sought:

I lur’d her backward mind to seize the bait,

And to the massie gold gave double weight.

My favour to my votary was show’d,

Her speed I lessen’d, and encreas’d her load.

But lest, tho’ long, the rapid race be run,

Before my longer, tedious tale is done,

The youth the goal, and so the virgin won.

Might I, Adonis, now not hope to see

His grateful thanks pour’d out for victory?

His pious incense on my altars laid?

But he nor grateful thanks, nor incense paid.

Enrag’d I vow’d, that with the youth the fair,

For his contempt, should my keen vengeance share;

That future lovers might my pow’r revere,

And, from their sad examples, learn to fear.

The silent fanes, the sanctify’d abodes,

Of Cybele, great mother of the Gods,

Rais’d by Echion in a lonely wood,

And full of brown, religious horror stood.

By a long painful journey faint, they chose!

Their weary limbs here secret to repose.

But soon my pow’r inflam’d the lustful boy,

Careless of rest he sought untimely joy.

A hallow’d gloomy cave, with moss o’er-grown,

The temple join’d, of native pumice-stone,

Where antique images by priests were kept.

And wooden deities securely slept.

Thither the rash Hippomenes retires,

And gives a loose to all his wild desires,

And the chaste cell pollutes with wanton fires.

The sacred statues trembled with surprize,

The tow’ry Goddess, blushing, veil’d her eyes;

And the lewd pair to Stygian sounds had sent,

But unrevengeful seem’d that punishment,

A heavier doom such black prophaneness draws,

Their taper figures turn to crooked paws.

No more their necks the smoothness can retain,

Now cover’d sudden with a yellow mane.

Arms change to legs: each finds the hard’ning breast

Of rage unknown, and wond’rous strength possest.

Their alter’d looks with fury grim appear,

And on the ground their brushing tails they hear.

They haunt the woods: their voices, which before

Were musically sweet, now hoarsly roar.

Hence lions, dreadful to the lab’ring swains,

Are tam’d by Cybele, and curb’d with reins,

And humbly draw her car along the plains.

But thou, Adonis, my delightful care,

Of these, and beasts, as fierce as these, beware!

The savage, which not shuns thee, timely shun,

For by rash prowess should’st thou be undone,

A double ruin is contain’d in one.

Thus cautious Venus school’d her fav’rite boy;

But youthful heat all cautions will destroy.

His sprightly soul beyond grave counsels flies,

While with yok’d swans the Goddess cuts the skies.

His faithful hounds, led by the tainted wind,

Lodg’d in thick coverts chanc’d a boar to find.

The callow hero show’d a manly heart,

And pierc’d the savage with a side-long dart.

The flying savage, wounded, turn’d again,

Wrench’d out the gory dart, and foam’d with pain.

The trembling boy by flight his safety sought,

And now recall’d the lore, which Venus taught;

But now too late to fly the boar he strove,

Who in the groin his tusks impetuous drove,

On the discolour’d grass Adonis lay,

The monster trampling o’er his beauteous prey.

Fair Cytherea, Cyprus scarce in view,

Heard from afar his groans, and own’d them true,

And turn’d her snowy swans, and backward flew.

But as she saw him gasp his latest breath,

And quiv’ring agonize in pangs of death,

Down with swift flight she plung’d, nor rage forbore,

At once her garments, and her hair she tore.

With cruel blows she beat her guiltless breast,

The Fates upbraided, and her love confest.

Nor shall they yet (she cry’d) the whole devour

With uncontroul’d, inexorable pow’r:

For thee, lost youth, my tears, and restless pain

Shall in immortal monuments remain,

With solemn pomp in annual rites return’d,

Be thou for ever, my Adonis, mourn’d,

Could Pluto’s queen with jealous fury storm,

And Menthe to a fragrant herb transform?

Yet dares not Venus with a change surprise,

And in a flow’r bid her fall’n heroe rise?

Then on the blood sweet nectar she bestows,

The scented blood in little bubbles rose:

Little as rainy drops, which flutt’ring fly,

Born by the winds, along a low’ring sky.

Short time ensu’d, ‘till where the blood was shed,

A flow’r began to rear its purple head:

Such, as on Punick apples is reveal’d,

Or in the filmy rind but half conceal’d.

Still here the Fate of lovely forms we see,

So sudden fades the sweet Anemonie.

The feeble stems, to stormy blasts a prey,

Their sickly beauties droop, and pine away.

The winds forbid the flow’rs to flourish long,

Which owe to winds their names in Grecian song.

Book XI

Book XI contains one of the most well-known stories from the Metamorphoses: the story of King Midas and his golden touch. This famous story of a king who wished that everything he touched turn to gold—without realizing that this would apply to his food and drink as well—is a good example of a theme found throughout the Metamorphoses. Humans, as much as they wish to be god-like, are truly incapable of handling divine or extraordinary power, even if they manage to get their hands on it.

On the other hand, the tale of Ceyx and Alcyone, which also makes up a large section of Book XI, proves that human beings can possess incredibly redeeming qualities, especially in the form of enduring love. Alcyone may not be able to prevent the death of her husband, but the grief she shows upon understanding that he has died, and the certainty with which she flings herself into the sea when she sees his body floating there, shows a commitment to their love that deserves nothing but praise; and the gods honor this by turning Alcyone and Ceyx into kingfishers so that they can continue to be together.

Humans are flawed and fragile, this is true—but they are also capable of displaying great dignity and heroism—and Ovid never shies away from showing humans in all their degradation or all their triumph.

The Death of Orpheus

Here, while the Thracian bard’s enchanting strain

Sooths beasts, and woods, and all the listn’ing plain,

The female Bacchanals, devoutly mad,

In shaggy skins, like savage creatures, clad,

Warbling in air perceiv’d his lovely lay,

And from a rising ground beheld him play.

When one, the wildest, with dishevel’d hair,

That loosely stream’d, and ruffled in the air;

Soon as her frantick eye the lyrist spy’d,

See, see! the hater of our sex, she cry’d.

Then at his face her missive javelin sent,

Which whiz’d along, and brusht him as it went;

But the soft wreathes of ivy twisted round,

Prevent a deep impression of the wound.

Another, for a weapon, hurls a stone,

Which, by the sound subdu’d as soon as thrown,

Falls at his feet, and with a seeming sense

Implores his pardon for its late offence.

But now their frantick rage unbounded grows,

Turns all to madness, and no measure knows:

Yet this the charms of musick might subdue,

But that, with all its charms, is conquer’d too;

In louder strains their hideous yellings rise,

And squeaking horn-pipes eccho thro’ the skies,

Which, in hoarse consort with the drum, confound

The moving lyre, and ev’ry gentle sound:

Then ‘twas the deafen’d stones flew on with speed,

And saw, unsooth’d, their tuneful poet bleed.

The birds, the beasts, and all the savage crew

Which the sweet lyrist to attention drew,

Now, by the female mob’s more furious rage,

Are driv’n, and forc’d to quit the shady stage.

Next their fierce hands the bard himself assail,

Nor can his song against their wrath prevail:

They flock, like birds, when in a clustring flight,

By day they chase the boding fowl of night.

So crowded amphitheatres survey

The stag, to greedy dogs a future prey.

Their steely javelins, which soft curls entwine

Of budding tendrils from the leafy vine,

For sacred rites of mild religion made,

Are flung promiscuous at the poet’s head.

Those clods of earth or flints discharge, and these

Hurl prickly branches sliver’d from the trees.

And, lest their passion shou’d be unsupply’d,

The rabble crew, by chance, at distance spy’d

Where oxen, straining at the heavy yoke,

The fallow’d field with slow advances broke;

Nigh which the brawny peasants dug the soil,

Procuring food with long laborious toil.

These, when they saw the ranting throng draw near,

Quitted their tools, and fled, possest with fear.

Long spades, and rakes of mighty size were found,

Carelesly left upon the broken ground.

With these the furious lunaticks engage,

And first the lab’ring oxen feel their rage;

Then to the poet they return with speed,

Whose fate was, past prevention, now decreed:

In vain he lifts his suppliant hands, in vain

He tries, before, his never-failing strain.

And, from those sacred lips, whose thrilling sound

Fierce tygers, and insensate rocks cou’d wound,

Ah Gods! how moving was the mournful sight!

To see the fleeting soul now take its flight.

Thee the soft warblers of the feather’d kind

Bewail’d; for thee thy savage audience pin’d;

Those rocks and woods that oft thy strain had led,

Mourn for their charmer, and lament him dead;

And drooping trees their leafy glories shed.

Naids and Dryads with dishevel’d hair

Promiscuous weep, and scarfs of sable wear;

Nor cou’d the river-Gods conceal their moan,

But with new floods of tears augment their own.

His mangled limbs lay scatter’d all around,

His head, and harp a better fortune found;

In Hebrus’ streams they gently roul’d along,

And sooth’d the waters with a mournful song.

Soft deadly notes the lifeless tongue inspire,

A doleful tune sounds from the floating lyre;

The hollows banks in solemn consort mourn,

And the sad strain in ecchoing groans return.

Now with the current to the sea they glide,

Born by the billows of the briny tide;

And driv’n where waves round rocky Lesbos roar,

They strand, and lodge upon Methymna’s shore.

But here, when landed on the foreign soil,

A venom’d snake, the product of the isle

Attempts the head, and sacred locks embru’d

With clotted gore, and still fresh-dropping blood.

Phoebus, at last, his kind protection gives,

And from the fact the greedy monster drives:

Whose marbled jaws his impious crime atone,

Still grinning ghastly, tho’ transform’d to stone.

His ghost flies downward to the Stygian shore,

And knows the places it had seen before:

Among the shadows of the pious train

He finds Eurydice, and loves again;

With pleasure views the beauteous phantom’s charms,

And clasps her in his unsubstantial arms.

There side by side they unmolested walk,

Or pass their blissful hours in pleasing talk;

Aft or before the bard securely goes,

And, without danger, can review his spouse.

The Thracian Women transform’d to Trees

Bacchus, resolving to revenge the wrong,

Of Orpheus murder’d, on the madding throng,

Decreed that each accomplice dame should stand

Fix’d by the roots along the conscious land.

Their wicked feet, that late so nimbly ran

To wreak their malice on the guiltless man,

Sudden with twisted ligatures were bound,

Like trees, deep planted in the turfy ground.

And, as the fowler with his subtle gins,

His feather’d captives by the feet entwines,

That flutt’ring pant, and struggle to get loose,

Yet only closer draw the fatal noose;

So these were caught; and, as they strove in vain

To quit the place, they but encreas’d their pain.

They flounce and toil, yet find themselves controul’d;

The root, tho’ pliant, toughly keeps its hold.

In vain their toes and feet they look to find,

For ev’n their shapely legs are cloath’d with rind.

One smites her thighs with a lamenting stroke,

And finds the flesh transform’d to solid oak;

Another, with surprize, and grief distrest,

Lays on above, but beats a wooden breast.

A rugged bark their softer neck invades,

Their branching arms shoot up delightful shades;

At once they seem, and are, a real grove,

With mossy trunks below, and verdant leaves above.

The Fable of Midas

Nor this suffic’d; the God’s disgust remains,

And he resolves to quit their hated plains;

The vineyards of Tymole ingross his care,

And, with a better choir, he fixes there;

Where the smooth streams of clear Pactolus roll’d,

Then undistinguish’d for its sands of gold.

The satyrs with the nymphs, his usual throng,

Come to salute their God, and jovial danc’d along.

Silenus only miss’d; for while he reel’d,

Feeble with age, and wine, about the field,

The hoary drunkard had forgot his way,

And to the Phrygian clowns became a prey;

Who to king Midas drag the captive God,

While on his totty pate the wreaths of ivy nod.

Midas from Orpheus had been taught his lore,

And knew the rites of Bacchus long before.

He, when he saw his venerable guest,

In honour of the God ordain’d a feast.

Ten days in course, with each continu’d night,

Were spent in genial mirth, and brisk delight:

Then on th’ eleventh, when with brighter ray

Phosphor had chac’d the fading stars away,

The king thro’ Lydia’s fields young Bacchus sought,

And to the God his foster-father brought.

Pleas’d with the welcome sight, he bids him soon

But name his wish, and swears to grant the boon.

A glorious offer! yet but ill bestow’d

On him whose choice so little judgment show’d.

Give me, says he (nor thought he ask’d too much),

That with my body whatsoe’er I touch,

Chang’d from the nature which it held of old,

May be converted into yellow gold.

He had his wish; but yet the God repin’d,

To think the fool no better wish could find.

But the brave king departed from the place,

With smiles of gladness sparkling in his face:

Nor could contain, but, as he took his way,

Impatient longs to make the first essay.

Down from a lowly branch a twig he drew,

The twig strait glitter’d with a golden hue:

He takes a stone, the stone was turn’d to gold;

A clod he touches, and the crumbling mold

Acknowledg’d soon the great transforming pow’r,

In weight and substance like a mass of ore.

He pluck’d the corn, and strait his grasp appears

Fill’d with a bending tuft of golden ears.

An apple next he takes, and seems to hold

The bright Hesperian vegetable gold.

His hand he careless on a pillar lays.

With shining gold the fluted pillars blaze:

And while he washes, as the servants pour,

His touch converts the stream to Danae’s show’r.

To see these miracles so finely wrought,

Fires with transporting joy his giddy thought.

The ready slaves prepare a sumptuous board,

Spread with rich dainties for their happy lord;

Whose pow’rful hands the bread no sooner hold,

But its whole substance is transform’d to gold:

Up to his mouth he lifts the sav’ry meat,

Which turns to gold as he attempts to eat:

His patron’s noble juice of purple hue,

Touch’d by his lips, a gilded cordial grew;

Unfit for drink, and wondrous to behold,

It trickles from his jaws a fluid gold.

The rich poor fool, confounded with surprize,

Starving in all his various plenty lies:

Sick of his wish, he now detests the pow’r,

For which he ask’d so earnestly before;

Amidst his gold with pinching famine curst;

And justly tortur’d with an equal thirst.

At last his shining arms to Heav’n he rears,

And in distress, for refuge, flies to pray’rs.

O father Bacchus, I have sinn’d, he cry’d,

And foolishly thy gracious gift apply’d;

Thy pity now, repenting, I implore;

Oh! may I feel the golden plague no more.

The hungry wretch, his folly thus confest,

Touch’d the kind deity’s good-natur’d breast;

The gentle God annull’d his first decree,

And from the cruel compact set him free.

But then, to cleanse him quite from further harm,

And to dilute the relicks of the charm,

He bids him seek the stream that cuts the land

Nigh where the tow’rs of Lydian Sardis stand;

Then trace the river to the fountain head,

And meet it rising from its rocky bed;

There, as the bubling tide pours forth amain,

To plunge his body in, and wash away the stain.

The king instructed to the fount retires,

But with the golden charm the stream inspires:

For while this quality the man forsakes,

An equal pow’r the limpid water takes;

Informs with veins of gold the neighb’ring land,

And glides along a bed of golden sand.

Now loathing wealth, th’ occasion of his woes,

Far in the woods he sought a calm repose;

In caves and grottos, where the nymphs resort,

And keep with mountain Pan their sylvan court.

Ah! had he left his stupid soul behind!

But his condition alter’d not his mind.

For where high Tmolus rears his shady brow,

And from his cliffs surveys the seas below,

In his descent, by Sardis bounded here,

By the small confines of Hypaepa there,

Pan to the nymphs his frolick ditties play’d,

Tuning his reeds beneath the chequer’d shade.

The nymphs are pleas’d, the boasting sylvan plays,

And speaks with slight of great Apollo’s lays.

Tmolus was arbiter; the boaster still

Accepts the tryal with unequal skill.

The venerable judge was seated high

On his own hill, that seem’d to touch the sky.

Above the whisp’ring trees his head he rears,

From their encumbring boughs to free his ears;

A wreath of oak alone his temples bound,

The pendant acorns loosely dangled round.

In me your judge, says he, there’s no delay:

Then bids the goatherd God begin, and play.

Pan tun’d the pipe, and with his rural song

Pleas’d the low taste of all the vulgar throng;

Such songs a vulgar judgment mostly please,

Midas was there, and Midas judg’d with these.

The mountain sire with grave deportment now

To Phoebus turns his venerable brow:

And, as he turns, with him the listning wood

In the same posture of attention stood.

The God his own Parnassian laurel crown’d,

And in a wreath his golden tresses bound,

Graceful his purple mantle swept the ground.

High on the left his iv’ry lute he rais’d,

The lute, emboss’d with glitt’ring jewels, blaz’d

In his right hand he nicely held the quill,

His easy posture spoke a master’s skill.

The strings he touch’d with more than human art,

Which pleas’d the judge’s ear, and sooth’d his heart;

Who soon judiciously the palm decreed,

And to the lute postpon’d the squeaking reed.

All, with applause, the rightful sentence heard,

Midas alone dissatisfy’d appear’d;

To him unjustly giv’n the judgment seems,

For Pan’s barbarick notes he most esteems.

The lyrick God, who thought his untun’d ear

Deserv’d but ill a human form to wear,

Of that deprives him, and supplies the place

With some more fit, and of an ampler space:

Fix’d on his noddle an unseemly pair,

Flagging, and large, and full of whitish hair;

Without a total change from what he was,

Still in the man preserves the simple ass.

He, to conceal the scandal of the deed,

A purple turbant folds about his head;

Veils the reproach from publick view, and fears

The laughing world would spy his monstrous ears.

One trusty barber-slave, that us’d to dress

His master’s hair, when lengthen’d to excess,

The mighty secret knew, but knew alone,

And, tho’ impatient, durst not make it known.

Restless, at last, a private place he found,

Then dug a hole, and told it to the ground;

In a low whisper he reveal’d the case,

And cover’d in the earth, and silent left the place.

In time, of trembling reeds a plenteous crop

From the confided furrow sprouted up;

Which, high advancing with the ripening year,

Made known the tiller, and his fruitless care:

For then the rustling blades, and whisp’ring wind,

To tell th’ important secret, both combin’d.

The Building of Troy

Phoebus, with full revenge, from Tmolus flies,

Darts thro’ the air, and cleaves the liquid skies;

Near Hellespont he lights, and treads the plains

Where great Laomedon sole monarch reigns;

Where, built between the two projecting strands,

To Panomphaean Jove an altar stands.

Here first aspiring thoughts the king employ,

To found the lofty tow’rs of future Troy.

The work, from schemes magnificent begun,

At vast expence was slowly carry’d on:

Which Phoebus seeing, with the trident God

Who rules the swelling surges with his nod,

Assuming each a mortal shape, combine

At a set price to finish his design.

The work was built; the king their price denies,

And his injustice backs with perjuries.

This Neptune cou’d not brook, but drove the main,

A mighty deluge, o’er the Phrygian plain:

‘Twas all a sea; the waters of the deep

From ev’ry vale the copious harvest sweep;

The briny billows overflow the soil,

Ravage the fields, and mock the plowman’s toil.

Nor this appeas’d the God’s revengeful mind,

For still a greater plague remains behind;

A huge sea-monster lodges on the sands,

And the king’s daughter for his prey demands.

To him that sav’d the damsel, was decreed

A set of horses of the Sun’s fine breed:

But when Alcides from the rock unty’d

The trembling fair, the ransom was deny’d.

He, in revenge, the new-built walls attack’d,

And the twice-perjur’d city bravely sack’d.

Telamon aided, and in justice shar’d

Part of the plunder as his due reward:

The princess, rescu’d late, with all her charms,

Hesione, was yielded to his arms;

For Peleus, with a Goddess-bride, was more

Proud of his spouse, than of his birth before:

Grandsons to Jove there might be more than one,

But he the Goddess had enjoy’d alone.

The Story of Thetis and Peleus

For Proteus thus to virgin Thetis said,

Fair Goddess of the waves, consent to wed,

And take some spritely lover to your bed.

A son you’ll have, the terror of the field,

To whom in fame, and pow’r his sire shall yield.

Jove, who ador’d the nymph with boundless love,

Did from his breast the dangerous flame remove.

He knew the Fates, nor car’d to raise up one,

Whose fame and greatness should eclipse his own,

On happy Peleus he bestow’d her charms,

And bless’d his grandson in the Goddess’ arms:

A silent creek Thessalia’s coast can show;

Two arms project, and shape it like a bow;

‘Twould make a bay, but the transparent tide

Does scarce the yellow-gravell’d bottom hide;

For the quick eye may thro’ the liquid wave

A firm unweedy level beach perceive.

A grove of fragrant myrtle near it grows,

Whose boughs, tho’ thick, a beauteous grot disclose;

The well-wrought fabrick, to discerning eyes,

Rather by art than Nature seems to rise.

A bridled dolphin oft fair Thetis bore

To this her lov’d retreat, her fav’rite shore.

Here Peleus seiz’d her, slumbring while she lay,

And urg’d his suit with all that love could say:

But when he found her obstinately coy,

Resolv’d to force her, and command the joy;

The nymph, o’erpowr’d, to art for succour flies

And various shapes the eager youth surprize:

A bird she seems, but plies her wings in vain,

His hands the fleeting substance still detain:

A branchy tree high in the air she grew;

About its bark his nimble arms he threw:

A tyger next she glares with flaming eyes;

The frighten’d lover quits his hold, and flies:

The sea-Gods he with sacred rites adores,

Then a libation on the ocean pours;

While the fat entrails crackle in the fire,

And sheets of smoak in sweet perfume aspire;

‘Till Proteus rising from his oozy bed,

Thus to the poor desponding lover said:

No more in anxious thoughts your mind employ,

For yet you shall possess the dear expected joy.

You must once more th’ unwary nymph surprize,

As in her cooly grot she slumbring lies;

Then bind her fast with unrelenting hands,

And strain her tender limbs with knotted bands.

Still hold her under ev’ry different shape,

‘Till tir’d she tries no longer to escape.

Thus he: then sunk beneath the glassy flood,

And broken accents flutter’d, where he stood.

Bright Sol had almost now his journey done,

And down the steepy western convex run;

When the fair Nereid left the briny wave,

And, as she us’d, retreated to her cave.

He scarce had bound her fast, when she arose,

And into various shapes her body throws:

She went to move her arms, and found ‘em ty’d;

Then with a sigh, Some God assists ye, cry’d,

And in her proper shape stood blushing by his side.

About her waiste his longing arms he flung,

From which embrace the great Achilles sprung.

The Transformation of Daedalion

Peleus unmix’d felicity enjoy’d

(Blest in a valiant son, and virtuous bride),

‘Till Fortune did in blood his hands imbrue,

And his own brother by curst chance he slew:

Then driv’n from Thessaly, his native clime,

Trachinia first gave shelter to his crime;

Where peaceful Ceyx mildly fill’d the throne,

And like his sire, the morning planet, shone;

But now, unlike himself, bedew’d with tears,

Mourning a brother lost, his brow appears.

First to the town with travel spent, and care,

Peleus, and his small company repair:

His herds, and flocks the while at leisure feed,

On the rich pasture of a neighb’ring mead.

The prince before the royal presence brought,

Shew’d by the suppliant olive what he sought;

Then tells his name, and race, and country right,

But hides th’ unhappy reason of his flight.

He begs the king some little town to give,

Where they may safe his faithful vassals live.

Ceyx reply’d: To all my bounty flows,

A hospitable realm your suit has chose.

Your glorious race, and far-resounding fame,

And grandsire Jove, peculiar favours claim.

All you can wish, I grant; entreaties spare;

My kingdom (would ‘twere worth the sharing) share.

Tears stop’d his speech: astonish’d Peleus pleads

To know the cause from whence his grief proceeds.

The prince reply’d: There’s none of ye but deems

This hawk was ever such as now it seems;

Know ‘twas a heroe once, Daedalion nam’d,

For warlike deeds, and haughty valour fam’d;

Like me to that bright luminary born,

Who wakes Aurora, and brings on the morn.

His fierceness still remains, and love of blood,

Now dread of birds, and tyrant of the wood.

My make was softer, peace my greatest care;

But this my brother wholly bent on war;

Late nations fear’d, and routed armies fled

That force, which now the tim’rous pigeons dread.

A daughter he possess’d, divinely fair,

And scarcely yet had seen her fifteenth year;

Young Chione: a thousand rivals strove

To win the maid, and teach her how to love.

Phoebus, and Mercury by chance one day

From Delphi, and Cyllene past this way;

Together they the virgin saw: desire

At once warm’d both their breasts with am’rous fire.

Phoebus resolv’d to wait ‘till close of day;

But Mercury’s hot love brook’d no delay;

With his entrancing rod the maid he charms,

And unresisted revels in her arms.

‘Twas night, and Phoebus in a beldam’s dress,

To the late rifled beauty got access.

Her time compleat nine circling moons had run;

To either God she bore a lovely son:

To Mercury Autolycus she brought,

Who turn’d to thefts and tricks his subtle thought;

Possess’d he was of all his father’s slight,

At will made white look black, and black look white.

Philammon born to Phoebus, like his sire,

The Muses lov’d, and finely struck the lyre,

And made his voice, and touch in harmony conspire.

In vain, fond maid, you boast this double birth,

The love of Gods, and royal father’s worth,

And Jove among your ancestors rehearse!

Could blessings such as these e’er prove a curse?

To her they did, who with audacious pride,

Vain of her own, Diana’s charms decry’d.

Her taunts the Goddess with resentment fill;

My face you like not, you shall try my skill.

She said; and strait her vengeful bow she strung,

And sent a shaft that pierc’d her guilty tongue:

The bleeding tongue in vain its accents tries;

In the red stream her soul reluctant flies.

With sorrow wild I ran to her relief,

And try’d to moderate my brother’s grief.

He, deaf as rocks by stormy surges beat,

Loudly laments, and hears me not intreat.

When on the fun’ral pile he saw her laid,

Thrice he to rush into the flames assay’d,

Thrice with officious care by us was stay’d.

Now, mad with grief, away he fled amain,

Like a stung heifer that resents the pain,

And bellowing wildly bounds along the plain.

O’er the most rugged ways so fast he ran,

He seem’d a bird already, not a man:

He left us breathless all behind; and now

In quest of death had gain’d Parnassus’ brow:

But when from thence headlong himself he threw,

He fell not, but with airy pinions flew.

Phoebus in pity chang’d him to a fowl,

Whose crooked beak and claws the birds controul,

Little of bulk, but of a warlike soul.

A hawk become, the feather’d race’s foe,

He tries to case his own by other’s woe.

A Wolf turn’d into Marble

While they astonish’d heard the king relate

These wonders of his hapless brother’s fate;

The prince’s herdsman at the court arrives,

And fresh surprize to all the audience gives.

O Peleus, Peleus! dreadful news I bear,

He said; and trembled as he spoke for fear.

The worst, affrighted Peleus bid him tell,

Whilst Ceyx too grew pale with friendly zeal.

Thus he began: When Sol mid-heav’n had gain’d,

And half his way was past, and half remain’d,

I to the level shore my cattle drove,

And let them freely in the meadows rove.

Some stretch’d at length admire the watry plain,

Some crop’d the herb, some wanton swam the main.

A temple stands of antique make hard by,

Where no gilt domes, nor marble lure the eye;

Unpolish’d rafters bear its lowly height,

Hid by a grove, as ancient, from the sight.

Here Nereus, and the Nereids they adore;

I learnt it from the man who thither bore

His net, to dry it on the sunny shore.

Adjoyns a lake, inclos’d with willows round,

Where swelling waves have overflow’d the mound,

And, muddy, stagnate on the lower ground.

From thence a russling noise increasing flies,

Strikes the still shore; and frights us with surprize,

Strait a huge wolf rush’d from the marshy wood,

His jaws besmear’d with mingled foam, and blood,

Tho’ equally by hunger urg’d, and rage,

His appetite he minds not to asswage;

Nought that he meets, his rabid fury spares,

But the whole herd with mad disorder tears.

Some of our men who strove to drive him thence,

Torn by his teeth, have dy’d in their defence.

The echoing lakes, the sea, and fields, and shore,

Impurpled blush with streams of reeking gore.

Delay is loss, nor have we time for thought;

While yet some few remain alive, we ought

To seize our arms, and with confederate force

Try if we so can stop his bloody course.

But Peleus car’d not for his ruin’d herd;

His crime he call’d to mind, and thence inferr’d,

That Psamathe’s revenge this havock made,

In sacrifice to murder’d Phocus’ shade.

The king commands his servants to their arms;

Resolv’d to go; but the loud noise alarms

His lovely queen, who from her chamber flew,

And her half-plaited hair behind her threw:

About his neck she hung with loving fears,

And now with words, and now with pleading tears,

Intreated that he’d send his men alone,

And stay himself, to save two lives in one.

Then Peleus: Your just fears, o queen, forget;

Too much the offer leaves me in your debt.

No arms against the monster I shall bear,

But the sea nymphs appease with humble pray’r.

The citadel’s high turrets pierce the sky,

Which home-bound vessels, glad, from far descry;

This they ascend, and thence with sorrow ken

The mangled heifers lye, and bleeding men;

Th’ inexorable ravager they view,

With blood discolour’d, still the rest pursue:

There Peleus pray’d submissive tow’rds the sea,

And deprecates the ire of injur’d Psamathe.

But deaf to all his pray’rs the nymph remain’d,

‘Till Thetis for her spouse the boon obtain’d.

Pleas’d with the luxury, the furious beast,

Unstop’d, continues still his bloody feast:

While yet upon a sturdy bull he flew,

Chang’d by the nymph, a marble block he grew.

No longer dreadful now the wolf appears,

Bury’d in stone, and vanish’d like their fears.

Yet still the Fates unhappy Peleus vex’d;

To the Magnesian shore he wanders next.

Acastus there, who rul’d the peaceful clime,

Grants his request, and expiates his crime.

The Story of Ceyx and Alcyone

These prodigies affect the pious prince,

But more perplex’d with those that happen’d since,

He purposes to seek the Clarian God,

Avoiding Delphi, his more fam’d abode,

Since Phlegyan robbers made unsafe the road.

Yet could he not from her he lov’d so well,

The fatal voyage, he resolv’d, conceal;

But when she saw her lord prepar’d to part,

A deadly cold ran shiv’ring to her heart;

Her faded cheeks are chang’d to boxen hue,

And in her eyes the tears are ever new.

She thrice essay’d to speak; her accents hung,

And falt’ring dy’d unfinish’d on her tongue,

And vanish’d into sighs: with long delay

Her voice return’d, and found the wonted way.

Tell me, my lord, she said, what fault unknown

Thy once belov’d Alcyone has done?

Whither, ah, whither, is thy kindness gone!

Can Ceyx then sustain to leave his wife,

And unconcern’d forsake the sweets of life?

What can thy mind to this long journey move?

Or need’st thou absence to renew thy love?

Yet, if thou go’st by land, tho’ grief possess

My soul ev’n then, my fears will be the less.

But ah! be warn’d to shun the watry way,

The face is frightful of the stormy sea:

For late I saw a-drift disjointed planks,

And empty tombs erected on the banks.

Nor let false hopes to trust betray thy mind,

Because my sire in caves constrains the wind,

Can with a breath their clam’rous rage appease,

They fear his whistle, and forsake the seas:

Not so; for once indulg’d, they sweep the main;

Deaf to the call, or hearing, hear in vain;

But bent on mischief bear the waves before,

And not content with seas, insult the shore,

When ocean, air, and Earth, at once ingage,

And rooted forests fly before their rage:

At once the clashing clouds to battel move,

And lightnings run across the fields above:

I know them well, and mark’d their rude comport,

While yet a child within my father’s court:

In times of tempest they command alone,

And he but sits precarious on the throne:

The more I know, the more my fears augment;

And fears are oft prophetick of th’ event.

But if not fears, or reasons will prevail,

If Fate has fix’d thee obstinate to sail,

Go not without thy wife, but let me bear

My part of danger with an equal share,

And present, what I suffer only fear:

Then o’er the bounding billows shall we fly,

Secure to live together, or to die.

These reasons mov’d her warlike husband’s heart,

But still he held his purpose to depart:

For as he lov’d her equal to his life,

He would not to the seas expose his wife;

Nor could be wrought his voyage to refrain,

But sought by arguments to sooth her pain:

Nor these avail’d; at length he lights on one,

With which so difficult a cause he won:

My love, so short an absence cease to fear,

For by my father’s holy flame I swear,

Before two moons their orb with light adorn,

If Heav’n allow me life, I will return.

This promise of so short a stay prevails;

He soon equips the ship, supplies the sails,

And gives the word to launch; she trembling views

This pomp of death, and parting tears renews:

Last with a kiss, she took a long farewel,

Sigh’d with a sad presage, and swooning fell:

While Ceyx seeks delays, the lusty crew,

Rais’d on their banks, their oars in order drew

To their broad breasts, the ship with fury flew.

The queen recover’d, rears her humid eyes,

And first her husband on the poop espies,

Shaking his hand at distance on the main;

She took the sign, and shook her hand again.

Still as the ground recedes, contracts her view

With sharpen’d sight, ‘till she no longer knew

The much-lov’d face; that comfort lost supplies

With less, and with the galley feeds her eyes;

The galley born from view by rising gales,

She follow’d with her sight the flying sails:

When ev’n the flying sails were seen no more,

Forsaken of all sight she left the shore.

Then on her bridal bed her body throws,

And sought in sleep her wearied eyes to close:

Her husband’s pillow, and the widow’d part

Which once he press’d, renew’d the former smart.

And now a breeze from shoar began to blow,

The sailors ship their oars, and cease to row;

Then hoist their yards a-trip, and all their sails

Let fall, to court the wind, and catch the gales:

By this the vessel half her course had run,

Both shoars were lost to sight, when at the close

Of day a stiffer gale at east arose:

The sea grew white, the rouling waves from far,

Like heralds, first denounce the watry war.

This seen, the master soon began to cry,

Strike, strike the top-sail; let the main-sheet fly,

And furl your sails: the winds repel the sound,

And in the speaker’s mouth the speech is drown’d.

Yet of their own accord, as danger taught

Each in his way, officiously they wrought;

Some stow their oars, or stop the leaky sides,

Another bolder, yet the yard bestrides,

And folds the sails; a fourth with labour laves

Th’ intruding seas, and waves ejects on waves.

In this confusion while their work they ply,

The winds augment the winter of the sky,

And wage intestine wars; the suff’ring seas

Are toss’d, and mingled, as their tyrants please.

The master would command, but in despair

Of safety, stands amaz’d with stupid care,

Nor what to bid, or what forbid he knows,

Th’ ungovern’d tempest to such fury grows:

Vain is his force, and vainer is his skill;

With such a concourse comes the flood of ill;

The cries of men are mix’d with rattling shrowds;

Seas dash on seas, and clouds encounter clouds:

At once from east to west, from pole to pole,

The forky lightnings flash, the roaring thunders roul.

Now waves on waves ascending scale the skies,

And in the fires above the water fries:

When yellow sands are sifted from below,

The glittering billows give a golden show:

And when the fouler bottom spews the black

The Stygian dye the tainted waters take:

Then frothy white appear the flatted seas,

And change their colour, changing their disease,

Like various fits the Trachin vessel finds,

And now sublime, she rides upon the winds;

As from a lofty summit looks from high,

And from the clouds beholds the nether sky;

Now from the depth of Hell they lift their sight,

And at a distance see superior light;

The lashing billows make a loud report,

And beat her sides, as batt’ring rams a fort:

Or as a lion bounding in his way,

With force augmented, bears against his prey,

Sidelong to seize; or unapal’d with fear,

Springs on the toils, and rushes on the spear:

So seas impell’d by winds, with added pow’r

Assault the sides, and o’er the hatches tow’r.

The planks (their pitchy cov’ring wash’d away)

Now yield; and now a yawning breach display:

The roaring waters with a hostile tide

Rush through the ruins of her gaping side.

Mean-time in sheets of rain the sky descends,

And ocean swell’d with waters upwards tends;

One rising, falling one, the Heav’ns and sea

Meet at their confines, in the middle way:

The sails are drunk with show’rs, and drop with rain,

Sweet waters mingle with the briny main.

No star appears to lend his friendly light;

Darkness, and tempest make a double night;

But flashing fires disclose the deep by turns,

And while the lightnings blaze, the water burns.

Now all the waves their scatter’d force unite,

And as a soldier foremost in the fight,

Makes way for others, and an host alone

Still presses on, and urging gains the town;

So while th’ invading billows come a-breast,

The hero tenth advanc’d before the rest,

Sweeps all before him with impetuous sway,

And from the walls descends upon the prey;

Part following enter, part remain without,

With envy hear their fellows’ conqu’ring shout,

And mount on others’ backs, in hopes to share

The city, thus become the seat of war.

An universal cry resounds aloud,

The sailors run in heaps, a helpless crowd;

Art fails, and courage falls, no succour near;

As many waves, as many deaths appear.

One weeps, and yet despairs of late relief;

One cannot weep, his fears congeal his grief,

But stupid, with dry eyes expects his fate:

One with loud shrieks laments his lost estate,

And calls those happy whom their fun’rals wait.

This wretch with pray’rs and vows the Gods implores,

And ev’n the skies he cannot see, adores.

That other on his friends his thoughts bestows,

His careful father, and his faithful spouse.

The covetous worldling in his anxious mind,

Thinks only on the wealth he left behind.

All Ceyx his Alcyone employs,

For her he grieves, yet in her absence joys:

His wife he wishes, and would still be near,

Not her with him, but wishes him with her:

Now with last looks he seeks his native shoar,

Which Fate has destin’d him to see no more;

He sought, but in the dark tempestuous night

He knew not whither to direct his sight.

So whirl the seas, such darkness blinds the sky,

That the black night receives a deeper dye.

The giddy ship ran round; the tempest tore

Her mast, and over-board the rudder bore.

One billow mounts, and with a scornful brow,

Proud of her conquest gain’d, insults the waves below;

Nor lighter falls, than if some giant tore

Pindus and Athos with the freight they bore,

And toss’d on seas; press’d with the pond’rous blow,

Down sinks the ship within th’ abyss below:

Down with the vessel sink into the main

The many, never more to rise again.

Some few on scatter’d planks, with fruitless care,

Lay hold, and swim; but while they swim, despair.

Ev’n he who late a scepter did command,

Now grasps a floating fragment in his hand;

And while he struggles on the stormy main,

Invokes his father, and his wife’s, in vain.

But yet his consort is his greatest care,

Alcyone he names amidst his pray’r;

Names as a charm against the waves and wind;

Most in his mouth, and ever in his mind.

Tir’d with his toil, all hopes of safety past,

From pray’rs to wishes he descends at last;

That his dead body, wafted to the sands,

Might have its burial from her friendly hands,

As oft as he can catch a gulp of air,

And peep above the seas, he names the fair;

And ev’n when plung’d beneath, on her he raves,

Murm’ring Alcyone below the waves:

At last a falling billow stops his breath,

Breaks o’er his head, and whelms him underneath.

That night, his heav’nly form obscur’d with tears,

And since he was forbid to leave the skies,

He muffled with a cloud his mournful eyes.

Mean-time Alcyone (his fate unknown)

Computes how many nights he had been gone.

Observes the waining moon with hourly view,

Numbers her age, and wishes for a new;

Against the promis’d time provides with care,

And hastens in the woof the robes he was to wear:

And for her self employs another loom,

New-dress’d to meet her lord returning home,

Flatt’ring her heart with joys, that never were to come:

She fum’d the temples with an od’rous flame,

And oft before the sacred altars came,

To pray for him, who was an empty name.

All Pow’rs implor’d, but far above the rest

To Juno she her pious vows address’d,

Her much-lov’d lord from perils to protect,

And safe o’er seas his voyage to direct:

Then pray’d, that she might still possess his heart,

And no pretending rival share a part;

This last petition heard of all her pray’r,

The rest, dispers’d by winds, were lost in air.

But she, the Goddess of the nuptial bed,

Tir’d with her vain devotions for the dead,

Resolv’d the tainted hand should be repell’d,

Which incense offer’d, and her altar held:

Then Iris thus bespoke: Thou faithful maid,

By whom thy queen’s commands are well convey’d,

Haste to the house of sleep, and bid the God

Who rules the night by visions with a nod,

Prepare a dream, in figure, and in form

Resembling him, who perish’d in the storm;

This form before Alcyone present,

To make her certain of the sad event.

Indu’d with robes of various hue she flies,

And flying draws an arch (a segment of the skies):

Then leaves her bending bow, and from the steep

Descends, to search the silent house of sleep.

The House of Sleep

Near the Cymmerians, in his dark abode,

Deep in a cavern, dwells the drowzy God;

Whose gloomy mansion nor the rising sun,

Nor setting, visits, nor the lightsome noon;

But lazy vapours round the region fly,

Perpetual twilight, and a doubtful sky:

No crowing cock does there his wings display,

Nor with his horny bill provoke the day;

Nor watchful dogs, nor the more wakeful geese,

Disturb with nightly noise the sacred peace;

Nor beast of Nature, nor the tame are nigh,

Nor trees with tempests rock’d, nor human cry;

But safe repose without an air of breath

Dwells here, and a dumb quiet next to death.

An arm of Lethe, with a gentle flow

Arising upwards from the rock below,

The palace moats, and o’er the pebbles creeps,

And with soft murmurs calls the coming sleeps.

Around its entry nodding poppies grow,

And all cool simples that sweet rest bestow;

Night from the plants their sleepy virtue drains,

And passing, sheds it on the silent plains:

No door there was th’ unguarded house to keep,

On creaking hinges turn’d, to break his sleep.

But in the gloomy court was rais’d a bed,

Stuff’d with black plumes, and on an ebon-sted:

Black was the cov’ring too, where lay the God,

And slept supine, his limbs display’d abroad:

About his head fantastick visions fly,

Which various images of things supply,

And mock their forms; the leaves on trees not more,

Nor bearded ears in fields, nor sands upon the shore.

The virgin ent’ring bright, indulg’d the day

To the brown cave, and brush’d the dreams away:

The God disturb’d with this new glare of light,

Cast sudden on his face, unseal’d his sight,

And rais’d his tardy head, which sunk again,

And sinking, on his bosom knock’d his chin;

At length shook off himself, and ask’d the dame,

(And asking yawn’d) for what intent she came.

To whom the Goddess thus: O sacred rest,

Sweet pleasing sleep, of all the Pow’rs the best!

O peace of mind, repairer of decay,

Whose balms renew the limbs to labours of the day,

Care shuns thy soft approach, and sullen flies away!

Adorn a dream, expressing human form,

The shape of him who suffer’d in the storm,

And send it flitting to the Trachin court,

The wreck of wretched Ceyx to report:

Before his queen bid the pale spectre stand,

Who begs a vain relief at Juno’s hand.

She said, and scarce awake her eyes could keep,

Unable to support the fumes of sleep;

But fled, returning by the way she went,

And swerv’d along her bow with swift ascent.

The God, uneasy ‘till he slept again,

Resolv’d at once to rid himself of pain;

And, tho’ against his custom, call’d aloud,

Exciting Morpheus from the sleepy crowd:

Morpheus, of all his numerous train, express’d

The shape of man, and imitated best;

The walk, the words, the gesture could supply,

The habit mimick, and the mein bely;

Plays well, but all his action is confin’d,

Extending not beyond our human kind.

Another, birds, and beasts, and dragons apes,

And dreadful images, and monster shapes:

This demon, Icelos, in Heav’n’s high hall

The Gods have nam’d; but men Phobetor call.

A third is Phantasus, whose actions roul

On meaner thoughts, and things devoid of soul;

Earth, fruits, and flow’rs he represents in dreams,

And solid rocks unmov’d, and running streams.

These three to kings, and chiefs their scenes display,

The rest before th’ ignoble commons play.

Of these the chosen Morpheus is dispatch’d;

Which done, the lazy monarch, over-watch’d,

Down from his propping elbow drops his head,

Dissolv’d in sleep, and shrinks within his bed.

Darkling the demon glides, for flight prepar’d,

So soft, that scarce his fanning wings are heard.

To Trachin, swift as thought, the flitting shade,

Thro’ air his momentary journey made:

Then lays aside the steerage of his wings,

Forsakes his proper form, assumes the king’s;

And pale, as death, despoil’d of his array,

Into the queen’s apartment takes his way,

And stands before the bed at dawn of day:

Unmov’d his eyes, and wet his beard appears;

And shedding vain, but seeming real tears;

The briny waters dropping from his hairs.

Then staring on her with a ghastly look,

And hollow voice, he thus the queen bespoke.

Know’st thou not me? Not yet, unhappy wife?

Or are my features perish’d with my life?

Look once again, and for thy husband lost,

Lo all that’s left of him, thy husband’s ghost!

Thy vows for my return were all in vain,

The stormy south o’ertook us in the main,

And never shalt thou see thy living lord again.

Bear witness, Heav’n, I call’d on thee in death,

And while I call’d, a billow stop’d my breath.

Think not, that flying fame reports my fate;

I present, I appear, and my own wreck relate.

Rise, wretched widow, rise; nor undeplor’d

Permit my soul to pass the Stygian ford;

But rise, prepar’d in black, to mourn thy perish’d lord.

Thus said the player-God; and adding art

Of voice and gesture, so perform’d his part,

She thought (so like her love the shade appears)

That Ceyx spake the words, and Ceyx shed the tears;

She groan’d, her inward soul with grief opprest,

She sigh’d, she wept, and sleeping beat her breast;

Then stretch’d her arms t’ embrace his body bare;

Her clasping arms inclose but empty air:

At this, not yet awake, she cry’d, O stay;

One is our fate, and common is our way!

So dreadful was the dream, so loud she spoke,

That starting sudden up, the slumber broke:

Then cast her eyes around, in hope to view

Her vanish’d lord, and find the vision true:

For now the maids, who waited her commands,

Ran in with lighted tapers in their hands.

Tir’d with the search, not finding what she seeks,

With cruel blows she pounds her blubber’d cheeks;

Then from her beaten breast the linnen tare,

And cut the golden caul that bound her hair.

Her nurse demands the cause; with louder cries

She prosecutes her griefs, and thus replies.

No more Alcyone; she suffer’d death

With her lov’d lord, when Ceyx lost his breath:

No flatt’ry, no false comfort, give me none,

My shipwreck’d Ceyx is for ever gone:

I saw, I saw him manifest in view,

His voice, his figure, and his gestures knew:

His lustre lost, and ev’ry living grace,

Yet I retain’d the features of his face;

Tho’ with pale cheeks, wet beard, and dropping hair,

None but my Ceyx could appear so fair:

I would have strain’d him with a strict embrace,

But thro’ my arms he slipt, and vanish’d from the place:

There, ev’n just there he stood; and as she spoke,

Where last the spectre was she cast her look:

Fain would she hope, and gaz’d upon the ground,

If any printed footsteps might be found.

Then sigh’d, and said: This I too well foreknew,

And my prophetick fears presag’d too true:

‘Twas what I begg’d, when with a bleeding heart

I took my leave, and suffer’d thee to part;

Or I to go along, or thou to stay,

Never, ah never to divide our way!

Happier for me, that all our hours assign’d

Together we had liv’d; ev’n not in death disjoin’d!

So had my Ceyx still been living here,

Or with my Ceyx I had perish’d there:

Now I die absent, in the vast profound;

And me, without my self, the seas have drown’d.

The storms were not so cruel: should I strive

To lengthen life, and such a grief survive;

But neither will I strive, nor wretched thee

In death forsake, but keep thee company.

If not one common sepulchre contains

Our bodies, or one urn our last remains,

Yet Ceyx and Alcyone shall join,

Their names remember’d in one common line.

No farther voice her mighty grief affords,

For sighs come rushing in betwixt her words,

And stop’d her tongue; but what her tongue deny’d,

Soft tears, and groans, and dumb complaints supply’d.

‘Twas morning; to the port she takes her way,

And stands upon the margin of the sea:

That place, that very spot of ground she sought,

Or thither by her destiny was brought,

Where last he stood: and while she sadly said,

‘Twas here he left me, lingring here delay’d

His parting kiss, and there his anchors weigh’d.

Thus speaking, while her thoughts past actions trace,

And call to mind, admonish’d by the place,

Sharp at her utmost ken she cast her eyes,

And somewhat floating from afar descries:

It seems a corps a-drift to distant sight,

But at a distance who could judge aright?

It wafted nearer yet, and then she knew,

That what before she but surmis’d, was true:

A corps it was, but whose it was, unknown,

Yet mov’d, howe’er, she made the cause her own.

Took the bad omen of a shipwreck’d man,

As for a stranger wept, and thus began.

Poor wretch, on stormy seas to lose thy life,

Unhappy thou, but more thy widow’d wife;

At this she paus’d: for now the flowing tide

Had brought the body nearer to the side:

The more she looks, the more her fears increase,

At nearer sight; and she’s her self the less:

Now driv’n ashore, and at her feet it lies,

She knows too much in knowing whom she sees:

Her husband’s corps; at this she loudly shrieks,

‘Tis he, ‘tis he, she cries, and tears her cheeks,

Her hair, and vest; and stooping to the sands,

About his neck she cast her trembling hands.

And is it thus, o dearer than my life,

Thus, thus return’st thou to thy longing wife!

She said, and to the neighbouring mole she strode,

(Rais’d there to break th’ incursions of the flood).

Headlong from hence to plunge her self she springs,

But shoots along, supported on her wings;

A bird new-made, about the banks she plies,

Not far from shore, and short excursions tries;

Nor seeks in air her humble flight to raise,

Content to skim the surface of the seas:

Her bill tho’ slender, sends a creaking noise,

And imitates a lamentable voice.

Now lighting where the bloodless body lies,

She with a fun’ral note renews her cries:

At all her stretch, her little wings she spread,

And with her feather’d arms embrac’d the dead:

Then flick’ring to his palid lips, she strove

To print a kiss, the last essay of love.

Whether the vital touch reviv’d the dead,

Or that the moving waters rais’d his head

To meet the kiss, the vulgar doubt alone;

For sure a present miracle was shown.

The Gods their shapes to winter-birds translate,

But both obnoxious to their former fate.

Their conjugal affection still is ty’d,

And still the mournful race is multiply’d:

They bill, they tread; Alcyone compress’d,

Sev’n days sits brooding on her floating nest:

A wintry queen: her sire at length is kind,

Calms ev’ry storm, and hushes ev’ry wind;

Prepares his empire for his daughter’s ease,

And for his hatching nephews smooths the seas.

Aesacus transform’d into a Cormorant

These some old man sees wanton in the air,

And praises the unhappy constant pair.

Then to his friend the long-neck’d corm’rant shows,

The former tale reviving others’ woes:

That sable bird, he cries, which cuts the flood

With slender legs, was once of royal blood;

His ancestors from mighty Tros proceed,

The brave Laomedon, and Ganymede

(Whose beauty tempted Jove to steal the boy),

And Priam, hapless prince! who fell with Troy:

Himself was Hector’s brother, and (had Fate

But giv’n this hopeful youth a longer date)

Perhaps had rival’d warlike Hector’s worth,

Tho’ on the mother’s side of meaner birth;

Fair Alyxothoe, a country maid,

Bare Aesacus by stealth in Ida’s shade.

He fled the noisy town, and pompous court,

Lov’d the lone hills, and simple rural sport.

And seldom to the city would resort.

Yet he no rustick clownishness profest,

Nor was soft love a stranger to his breast:

The youth had long the nymph Hesperie woo’d,

Oft thro’ the thicket, or the mead pursu’d:

Her haply on her father’s bank he spy’d,

While fearless she her silver tresses dry’d;

Away she fled: not stags with half such speed,

Before the prowling wolf, scud o’er the mead;

Not ducks, when they the safer flood forsake,

Pursu’d by hawks, so swift regain the lake.

As fast he follow’d in the hot career;

Desire the lover wing’d, the virgin fear.

A snake unseen now pierc’d her heedless foot;

Quick thro’ the veins the venom’d juices shoot:

She fell, and ‘scap’d by death his fierce pursuit;

Her lifeless body, frighted, he embrac’d,

And cry’d, Not this I dreaded, but thy haste:

O had my love been less, or less thy fear!

The victory, thus bought, is far too dear.

Accursed snake! yet I more curs’d than he!

He gave the wound; the cause was given by me.

Yet none shall say, that unreveng’d you dy’d.

He spoke; then climb’d a cliff’s o’er-hanging side,

And, resolute, leap’d on the foaming tide.

Tethys receiv’d him gently on the wave;

The death he sought deny’d, and feathers gave.

Debarr’d the surest remedy of grief,

And forc’d to live, he curst th’ unask’d relief.

Then on his airy pinions upward flies,

And at a second fall successless tries;

The downy plume a quick descent denies.

Enrag’d, he often dives beneath the wave,

And there in vain expects to find a grave.

His ceaseless sorrow for th’ unhappy maid,

Meager’d his look, and on his spirits prey’d.

Still near the sounding deep he lives; his name

From frequent diving and emerging came..

Book XV

After Romulus is taken up into the sky by the god Mars, Rome is in need of a new leader, and the city chooses a man by the name of Numa Pompilius.

In Book XV of Metamorphoses, Numa decides that to be a proper king, he has to temporarily leave Rome in order to better understand the laws of Nature. It is with this goal in mind that he travels to the city of Croton and meets a great philosophical thinker by the name of Pythagoras.

Roughly half of this book is dedicated to Pythagoras’ teachings, which feature everything from the mutability of the universe to reincarnation all the way to vegetarianism. His belief that the entire universe is always changing, in flux, is particularly interesting in relation to human societies. Cities, he says, continually rise and fall—and he tells Numa that Rome, while young and unknown now, will eventually grow to rule the world.

Feeling as if he’s learned what he set out to learn, Numa returns to Rome, transforms the city into a peaceful community, and lives out his days beloved by all its citizens.

After Ovid recounts a few more tales and transformations (Egeria’s transformation into a spring, Hippolytus’s transformation into an old man, the story of Cipus and his horns, the Roman plague, etc.) he gives an account of the rise and fall of Caesar, and the eventual success of his adoptive son, Augustus.

Ovid’s glowing account of these Roman rulers is, in a way, a fulfillment of Pythagoras’s earlier prophecy—Rome did indeed come to rule the world. However, we cannot forget that Pythagoras’s teachings emphasized the mutability of the universe. While he never mentioned Rome’s fall to Numa, we are meant to understand that, as the world changes, Rome may crumble.

Ovid himself, however, ends his magnum opus on a defiant note—though the world is always in flux, he claims immortality for himself. As long as his fame—the “nobler part” of him—spreads, and people continue to recite (or read) Metamorphoses, he will never truly die, though his mortal body may give up.

As long as Metamorphosis survives, he says, “one half of round eternity is mine.”

A KING is sought to guide the growing state,

One able to support the publick weight

And fill the throne where Romulus had sate.

Renown, which oft bespeaks the publick voice,

Had recommended Numa to their choice:

A peaceful, pious prince; who not content

To know the Sabine rites, his study bent

To cultivate his mind; to learn the laws

Of Nature, and explore their hidden cause.

Urg’d by this care, his country he forsook,

And to Crotona thence his journey took.

Arriv’d, he first enquir’d the founder’s name

Of this new colony; and whence he came.

Then thus a senior of the place replies

(Well read, and curious of antiquities):

’Tis said, Alcides hither took his way

From Spain, and drove along his conquer’d prey;

Then, leaving in the fields his grazing cows,

He sought himself some hospitable house:

Good Croton entertain’d his godlike guest;

While he repair’d his weary limbs with rest.

The hero, thence departing, bless’d the place;

And here, he said, in time’s revolving race,

A rising town shall take his name from thee.

Revolving time fulfill’d the prophecy:

For Myscelos, the justest man on Earth,

Alemon’s son, at Argos had his birth:

Him Hercules, arm’d with his club of oak,

O’ershadow’d in a dream, and thus bespoke:

Go, leave thy native soil, and make abode,

Where Aesaris rowls down his rapid flood:

He said; and sleep forsook him, and the God.

Trembling he wak’d, and rose with anxious heart;

His country laws forbad him to depart:

What shou’d he do? ’Twas death to go away,

And the God menac’d, if he dar’d to stay.

All day he doubted, and when night came on,

Sleep, and the same forewarning dream, begun:

Once more the God stood threatning o’er his head;

With added curses if he disobey’d.

Twice warn’d, he study’d flight; but wou’d convey,

At once, his person, and his wealth away:

Thus while he linger’d, his design was heard;

A speedy process form’d, and death declar’d.

Witness there needed none of his offence;

Against himself the wretch was evidence:

Condemn’d, and destitute of human aid,

To him, for whom he suffer’d, thus he pray’d.

O Pow’r, who hast deserv’d in Heav’n a throne,

Not giv’n, but by thy labours made thy own,

Pity thy suppliant, and protect his cause,

Whom thou hast made obnoxious to the laws.

A custom was of old, and still remains,

Which life, or death by suffrages ordains:

White stones, and black within an urn are cast;

The first absolve, but Fate is in the last.

The judges to the common urn bequeath

Their votes, and drop the sable signs of death;

The box receives all black, but, pour’d from thence,

The stones came candid forth; the hue of innocence.

Thus Alemonides his safety won,

Preserv’d from death by Alcumena’s son:

Then to his kinsman-God his vows he pays,

And cuts with prosp’rous gales th’ Ionian seas:

He leaves Tarentum favour’d by the wind,

And Thurine bays, and Ternises, behind;

Soft Sybaris, and all the capes that stand

Along the shore, he makes in sight of land;

Still doubling, and still coasting, ’till he found

The mouth of Aesaris, and promis’d ground;

Then saw, where, on the margin of the flood,

The tomb, that held the bones of Croton stood:

Here, by the Gods’ command, he built, and wall’d

The place predicted; and Crotona call’d.

Thus Fame, from time to time, delivers down

The sure tradition of th’ Italian town.

Here dwelt the man divine, whom Samos bore,

But now self-banish’d from his native shore,

Because he hated tyrants, nor cou’d bear

The chains, which none but servile souls will wear.

He, tho’ from Heav’n remote, to Heav’n cou’d move,

With strength of mind, and tread th’ abyss above;

And penetrate, with his interior light,

Those upper depths, which Nature hid from sight:

And what he had observ’d, and learnt from thence,

Lov’d in familiar language to dispence.

The crowd with silent admiration stand,

And heard him, as they heard their God’s command;

While he discours’d of Heav’n’s mysterious laws,

The world’s original, and Nature’s cause;

And what was God; and why the fleecy snows

In silence fell, and rattling winds arose;

What shook the stedfast Earth, and whence begun

The dance of planets round the radiant sun;

If thunder was the voice of angry Jove,

Or clouds, with nitre pregnant, burst above:

Of these, and things beyond the common reach,

He spoke, and charm’d his audience with his speech.

He first the taste of flesh from tables drove,

And argu’d well, if arguments cou’d move:

O mortals, from your fellows’ blood abstain,

Nor taint your bodies with a food profane:

While corn, and pulse by Nature are bestow’d,

And planted orchards bend their willing load;

While labour’d gardens wholesom herbs produce,

And teeming vines afford their gen’rous juice;

Nor tardier fruits of cruder kind are lost,

But tam’d with fire, or mellow’d by the frost;

While kine to pails distended udders bring,

And bees their hony redolent of Spring;

While Earth not only can your needs supply,

But, lavish of her store, provides for luxury;

A guiltless feast administers with ease,

And without blood is prodigal to please.

Wild beasts their maws with their slain brethren fill;

And yet not all, for some refuse to kill;

Sheep, goats, and oxen, and the nobler steed,

On browz, and corn, and flow’ry meadows, feed.

Bears, tygers, wolves, the Lyon’s angry brood,

Whom Heav’n endu’d with principles of blood,

He wisely sundred from the rest, to yell

In forests, and in lonely caves to dwell;

Where stronger beasts oppress the weak by might,

And all in prey, and purple feasts delight.

O impious use! to Nature’s laws oppos’d,

Where bowels are in other bowels clos’d:

Where fatten’d by their fellow’s fat, they thrive;

Maintain’d by murder, and by death they live.

’Tis then for nought, that Mother Earth provides

The stores of all she shows, and all she hides,

If men with fleshy morsels must be fed,

And chaw with bloody teeth the breathing bread:

What else is this, but to devour our guests,

And barb’rously renew Cyclopean feasts!

We, by destroying life, our life sustain;

And gorge th’ ungodly maw with meats obscene.

Not so the Golden Age, who fed on fruit,

Nor durst with bloody meals their mouths pollute.

Then birds in airy space might safely move,

And tim’rous hares on heaths securely rove:

Nor needed fish the guileful hooks to fear,

For all was peaceful; and that peace sincere.

Whoever was the wretch (and curs’d be he)

That envy’d first our food’s simplicity,

Th’ essay of bloody feasts on brutes began,

And after forg’d the sword to murder Man.

Had he the sharpen’d steel alone employ’d

On beasts of prey; that other beasts destroy’d,

Or Man invaded with their fangs and paws,

This had been justify’d by Nature’s laws,

And self-defence: but who did feasts begin

Of flesh, he stretch’d necessity to sin.

To kill man-killers, Man has lawful pow’r,

But not th’ extended licence, to devour.

Ill habits gather by unseen degrees,

As brooks make rivers, rivers run to seas.

The sow, with her broad snout, for rooting up

Th’ intrusted seed, was judg’d to spoil the crop,

And intercept the sweating farmer’s hope:

The covetous churl, of unforgiving kind,

Th’ offender to the bloody priest resign’d:

Her hunger was no plea: for that she dy’d.

The goat came next in order to be try’d:

The goat had cropt the tendrils of the vine:

In vengeance laity, and clergy join,

Where one had lost his profit, one his wine.

Here was, at least, some shadow of offence;

The sheep was sacrific’d on no pretence,

But meek, and unresisting innocence.

A patient, useful creature, born to bear

The warm, and wooly fleece, that cloath’d her murderer;

And daily to give down the milk she bred,

A tribute for the grass on which she fed.

Living, both food and rayment she supplies,

And is of least advantage, when she dies.

How did the toyling ox his death deserve,

A downright simple drudge, and born to serve?

O tyrant! with what justice canst thou hope

The promise of the year, a plenteous crop;

When thou destroy’st thy lab’ring steer, who till’d,

And plough’d with pains, thy else ungrateful field?

From his yet reeking neck, to draw the yoke,

That neck, with which the surly clods he broke;

And to the hatchet yield thy husbandman,

Who finish’d Autumn, and the Spring began!

Nor this alone! but Heav’n it self to bribe,

We to the Gods our impious acts ascribe:

First recompence with death their creatures’ toil;

Then call the bless’d above to share the spoil:

The fairest victim must the Pow’rs appease

(So fatal ’tis sometimes too much to please!),

A purple fillet his broad brows adorns,

With flow’ry garlands crown’d, and gilded horns:

He hears the murd’rous pray’r the priest prefers,

But understands not, ’tis his doom he hears:

Beholds the meal betwixt his temples cast

(The fruit and product of his labours past);

And in the water views perhaps the knife

Uplifted, to deprive him of his life;

Then broken up alive, his entrails sees

Torn out, for priests t’ inspect the Gods’ decrees.

From whence, o mortal men, this gust of blood

Have you deriv’d, and interdicted food?

Be taught by me this dire delight to shun,

Warn’d by my precepts, by my practice won:

And when you eat the well-deserving beast,

Think, on the lab’rour of your field you feast!

Now since the God inspires me to proceed,

Be that, whate’er inspiring Pow’r, obey’d.

For I will sing of mighty mysteries,

Of truths conceal’d before, from human eyes,

Dark oracles unveil and open all the skies.

Pleas’d as I am to walk along the sphere

Of shining stars, and travel with the year,

To leave the heavy Earth, and scale the height

Of Atlas, who supports the heav’nly weight;

To look from upper light, and thence survey

Mistaken mortals wand’ring from the way,

And wanting wisdom, fearful for the state

Of future things, and trembling at their Fate!

Those I would teach; and by right reason bring

To think of death, as but an idle thing.

Why thus affrighted at an empty name,

A dream of darkness, and fictitious flame?

Vain themes of wit, which but in poems pass,

And fables of a world, that never was!

What feels the body, when the soul expires,

By time corrupted, or consum’d by fires?

Nor dies the spirit, but new life repeats

In other forms, and only changes seats.

Ev’n I, who these mysterious truths declare,

Was once Eupborbus in the Trojan war;

My name, and lineage I remember well,

And how in fight by Sparta’s king I fell.

In Argive Juno’s fane I late beheld

My buckler hung on high, and own’d my former shield.

Then, death, so call’d, is but old matter dress’d

In some new figure, and a vary’d vest:

Thus all things are but alter’d, nothing dies;

And here, and there th’ unbody’d spirit flies.

By time, or force, or sickness dispossest,

And lodges, where it lights, in man or beast;

Or hunts without, ’till ready limbs it find,

And actuates those according to their kind;

From tenement to tenement is toss’d,

The soul is still the same, the figure only lost:

And, as the soften’d wax new seals receives,

This face assumes, and that impression leaves;

Now call’d by one, now by another name;

The form is only chang’d, the wax is still the same:

So death, so call’d, can but the form deface;

Th’ immortal soul flies out in empty space,

To seek her fortune in some other place.

Then let not piety be put to flight,

To please the taste of glutton appetite;

But suffer inmate souls secure to dwell,

Lest from their seats your parents you expel;

With rabid hunger feed upon your kind,

Or from a beast dislodge a brother’s mind.

And since, like Typhis parting from the shore,

In ample seas I sail, and depths untry’d before,

This let me further add, that Nature knows

No stedfast station, but, or ebbs, or flows:

Ever in motion; she destroys her old,

And casts new figures in another mold.

Ev’n times are in perpetual flux, and run,

Like rivers from their fountain, rowling on,

For time, no more than streams, is at a stay;

The flying hour is ever on her way:

And as the fountain still supplies her store,

The wave behind impels the wave before;

Thus in successive course the minutes run,

And urge their predecessor minutes on,

Till moving, ever new: for former things

Are set aside, like abdicated kings:

And every moment alters what is done,

And innovates some act, ’till then unknown.

Darkness we see emerges into light,

And shining suns descend to sable night;

Ev’n Heav’n it self receives another dye,

When weary’d animals in slumbers lie

Of midnight ease: another, when the gray

Of morn preludes the splendor of the day.

The disk of Phoebus, when he climbs on high,

Appears at first but as a bloodshot eye;

And when his chariot downwards drives to bed.

His ball is with the same suffusion red;

But mounted high in his meridian race

All bright he shines, and with a better face:

For there, pure particles of Aether flow,

Far from th’ infection of the world below.

Nor equal light th’ unequal Moon adorns,

Or in her waxing, or her waning horns,

For ev’ry day she wanes, her face is less;

But gath’ring into globe, she fattens at increase.

Perceiv’st thou not the process of the year,

How the four seasons in four forms appear,

Resembling human life in ev’ry shape they wear?

Spring first, like infancy, shoots out her head,

With milky juice requiring to be fed:

Helpless, tho’ fresh, and wanting to be led.

The green stem grows in stature, and in size,

But only feeds with hope the farmer’s eyes;

Then laughs the childish year with flowrets crown’d,

And lavishly perfumes the fields around,

But no substantial nourishment receives;

Infirm the stalks, unsolid are the leaves.

Proceeding onward whence the year began,

The Summer grows adult, and ripens into Man.

This season, as in men, is most repleat

With kindly moisture, and prolifick heat.

Autumn succeeds, a sober tepid age,

Not froze with fear, nor boiling into rage;

More than mature, and tending to decay,

When our brown locks repine to mix with odious gray.

Last, Winter creeps along with tardy pace,

Sour is his front, and furrow’d is his face;

His scalp if not dishonour’d quite of hair,

The ragged fleece is thin; and thin is worse than bare.

Ev’n our own bodies daily change receive,

Some part of what was theirs before, they leave;

Nor are to-day, what yesterday they were;

Nor the whole same to-morrow will appear.

Time was, when we were sow’d, and just began,

From some few fruitful drops, the promise of a man:

Then Nature’s hand (fermented as it was)

Moulded to shape the soft, coagulated mass;

And when the little man was fully form’d,

The breathless embrio with a spirit warm’d;

But when the mother’s throws begin to come,

The creature, pent within the narrow room,

Breaks his blind prison, pushing to repair

His stifled breath, and draw the living air;

Cast on the margin of the world he lies,

A helpless babe, but by instinct he cries.

He next essays to walk, but downward press’d

On four feet imitates his brother beast:

By slow degrees he gathers from the ground

His legs, and to the rowling chair is bound;

Then walks alone; a horseman now become,

He rides a stick, and travels round the room.

In time he vaunts among his youthful peers,

Strong-bon’d, and strung with nerves, in pride of years,

He runs with mettle his first merry stage,

Maintains the next, abated of his rage,

But manages his strength, and spares his age.

Heavy the third, and stiff, he sinks apace,

And tho’ tis down hill all, but creeps along the race.

Now sapless on the verge of death he stands,

Contemplating his former feet and hands;

And, Milo-like, his slacken’d sinews sees,

And wither’d arms, once fit to cope with Hercules,

Unable now to shake, much less to tear, the trees.

So Helen wept, when her too faithful glass

Reflected on her eyes the ruins of her face:

Wondring, what charms her ravishers cou’d spy,

To force her twice, or ev’n but once t’ enjoy!

Thy teeth, devouring time, thine, envious age,

On things below still exercise your rage:

With venom’d grinders you corrupt your meat,

And then, at lingring meals, the morsels eat.

Nor those, which elements we call, abide,

Nor to this figure, nor to that are ty’d;

For this eternal world is said, of old,

But four prolifick principles to hold,

Four different bodies; two to Heav’n ascend,

And other two down to the center tend:

Fire first with wings expanded mounts on high,

Pure, void of weight, and dwells in upper sky;

Then air, because unclog’d in empty space,

Flies after fire, and claims the second place:

But weighty water, as her nature guides,

Lies on the lap of Earth; and Mother Earth subsides.

All things are mix’d of these, which all contain,

And into these are all resolv’d again:

Earth rarifies to dew; expanded more,

The subtil dew in air begins to soar;

Spreads, as she flies, and weary of her name

Extenuates still, and changes into flame;

Thus having by degrees perfection won,

Restless they soon untwist the web, they spun,

And fire begins to lose her radiant hue,

Mix’d with gross air, and air descends to dew;

And dew condensing, does her form forego,

And sinks, a heavy lump of Earth below.

Thus are their figures never at a stand,

But chang’d by Nature’s innovating hand;

All things are alter’d, nothing is destroy’d,

The shifted scene for some new show employ’d.

Then, to be born, is to begin to be

Some other thing we were not formerly:

And what we call to die, is not t’ appear,

Or be the thing, that formerly we were.

Those very elements, which we partake

Alive, when dead some other bodies make:

Translated grow, have sense, or can discourse;

But death on deathless substance has no force.

That forms are chang’d, I grant; that nothing can

Continue in the figure it began:

The golden age, to silver was debas’d:

To copper that; our metal came at last.

The face of places, and their forms, decay;

And that is solid Earth, that once was sea:

Seas in their turn retreating from the shore,

Make solid land, what ocean was before;

And far from strands are shells of fishes found,

And rusty anchors fix’d on mountain-ground:

And what were fields before, now wash’d and worn

By falling floods from high, to valleys turn,

And crumbling still descend to level lands;

And lakes, and trembling bogs, are barren sands.

And the parch’d desart floats in streams unknown;

Wondring to drink of waters not her own.

Here Nature living fountains opes; and there

Seals up the wombs, where living fountains were;

Or earthquakes stop their ancient course, and bring

Diverted streams to feed a distant spring.

So Licus, swallow’d up, is seen no more,

But far from thence knocks out another door.

Thus Erasinus dives; and blind in Earth

Runs on, and gropes his way to second birth,

Starts up in Argos’ meads, and shakes his locks

Around the fields, and fattens all the flocks.

So Mysus by another way is led,

And, grown a river, now disdains his head:

Forgets his humble birth, his name forsakes,

And the proud title of Caïcus takes.

Large Amenane, impure with yellow sands,

Runs rapid often, and as often stands,

And here he threats the drunken fields to drown;

And there his dugs deny to give their liquor down.

Anigros once did wholsome draughts afford,

But now his deadly waters are abhorr’d:

Since, hurt by Hercules, as Fame resounds,

The centaurs in his current wash’d their wounds.

The streams of Hypanis are sweet no more,

But brackish lose the taste they had before.

Antissa, Pharos, Tyre, in seas were pent,

Once isles, but now increase the continent;

While the Leucadian coast, main land before,

By rushing seas is sever’d from the shore.

So Zancle to th’ Italian earth was ty’d,

And men once walk’d, where ships at anchor ride.

’Till Neptune overlook’d the narrow way,

And in disdain pour’d in the conqu’ring sea.

Two cities that adorn’d th’ Achaian ground,

Buris, and Helice, no more are found,

But whelm’d beneath a lake, are sunk and drown’d;

And boatsmen through the crystal water show,

To wond’ring passengers, the walls below.

Near Traten stands a hill, expos’d in air

To winter-winds, of leafy shadows bare:

This once was level ground: but (strange to tell)

Th’ included vapours, that in caverns dwell,

Lab’ring with cholick pangs; and close confin’d,

In vain sought issue for the rumbling wind:

Yet still they heav’d for vent, and heaving still

Inlarg’d the concave, and shot up the hill;

As breath extends a bladder, or the skins

Of goats are blown t’ inclose the hoarded wines:

The mountain yet retains a mountain’s face,

And gather’d rubbish heals the hollow space.

Of many wonders, which I heard, or knew,

Retrenching most, I will relate but few:

What, are not springs with qualities oppos’d,

Endu’d at seasons, and at seasons lost?

Thrice in a day thine, Ammon, change their form,

Cold at high noon, at morn, and evening warm:

Thine, Athaman, will kindle wood, if thrown

On the pil’d earth, and in the waning moon.

The Thracians have a stream, if any try

The taste, his harden’d bowels petrify;

Whate’er it touches, it converts to stones,

And makes a marble pavement, where it runs.

Crathis, and Sybaris her sister flood,

That slide through our Calabrian neighbour wood,

With gold, and amber dye the shining hair,

And thither youth resort (for who would not be fair?).

But stranger virtues yet in streams we find,

Some change not only bodies, but the mind:

Who has not heard of Salmacis obscene,

Whose waters into women soften men?

Or Aethiopian lakes, which turn the brain

To madness, or in heavy sleep constrain?

Clytorian streams the love of wine expel

(Such is the virtue of th’ abstemious well),

Whether the colder nymph that rules the flood

Extinguishes, and balks the drunken God;

Or that Melampus (so have some assur’d)

When the mad Proetides with charms he cur’d,

And pow’rful herbs, both charms, and simples cast

Into the sober spring, where still their virtues last.

Unlike effects Lyncestis will produce;

Who drinks his waters, tho’ with mod’rate use,

Reels as with wine, and sees with double sight:

His heels too heavy, and his head too light.

Ladon, once Pheneos, an Arcadian stream

(Ambiguous in th’ effects, as in the name),

By day is wholsome bev’rage; but is thought

By night infected, and a deadly draught.

Thus running rivers, and the standing lake,

Now of these virtues, now of those partake:

Time was (and all things time, and Fate obey)

When fast Ortygia floated on the sea;

Such were Cyanean isles, when Typhis steer’d

Betwixt their streights, and their collision fear’d;

They swam, where now they sit; and firmly join’d

Secure of rooting up, resist the wind.

Nor Aetna vomiting sulphureous fire

Will ever belch; for sulphur will expire

(The veins exhausted of the liquid store):

Time was, she cast no flames; in time will cast no more.

For whether Earth’s an animal, and air

Imbibes; her lungs with coolness to repair,

And what she sucks remits; she still requires

Inlets for air, and outlets for her fires;

When tortur’d with convulsive fits she shakes,

That motion choaks the vent, ’till other vent she makes:

Or when the winds in hollow caves are clos’d,

And subtle spirits find that way oppos’d,

They toss up flints in air; the flints that hide

The seeds of fire, thus toss’d in air, collide,

Kindling the sulphur, ’till the fewel spent

The cave is cool’ d, and the fierce winds relent.

Or whether sulphur, catching fire, feeds on

Its unctuous parts, ’till all the matter gone

The flames no more ascend; for Earth supplies

The fat that feeds them; and when Earth denies

That food, by length of time consum’d, the fire

Famish’d for want of fewel must expire.

A race of men there are, as Fame has told,

Who shiv’ring suffer Hyperborean cold,

’Till nine times bathing in Minerva’s lake,

Soft feathers, to defend their naked sides, they take.

’Tis said, the Scythian wives (believe who will)

Transform themselves to birds by magick skill;

Smear’d over with an oil of wond’rous might,

That adds new pinions to their airy flight.

But this by sure experiment we know,

That living creatures from corruption grow:

Hide in a hollow pit a slaughter’d steer,

Bees from his putrid bowels will appear;

Who, like their parents, haunt the fields, and bring

Their hony-harvest home, and hope another Spring.

The warlike-steed is multiply’d, we find,

To wasps, and hornets of the warrior kind.

Cut from a crab his crooked claws, and hide

The rest in Earth, a scorpion thence will glide,

And shoot his sting, his tail in circles toss’d

Refers the limbs his backward father lost:

And worms, that stretch on leaves their filmy loom,

Crawl from their bags, and butterflies become.

Ev’n slime begets the frog’s loquacious race:

Short of their feet at first, in little space

With arms, and legs endu’d, long leaps they take

Rais’d on their hinder part, and swim the lake,

And waves repel: for Nature gives their kind,

To that intent, a length of legs behind.

The cubs of bears a living lump appear,

When whelp’d, and no determin’d figure wear.

Their mother licks ’em into shape, and gives

As much of form, as she her self receives.

The grubs from their sexangular abode

Crawl out unfinish’d, like the maggot’s brood:

Trunks without limbs; ’till time at leisure brings

The thighs they wanted, and their tardy wings.

The bird who draws the carr of Juno, vain

Of her crown’d head, and of her starry train;

And he that bears th’ Artillery of Jove,

The strong-pounc’d eagle, and the billing dove;

And all the feather’d kind, who cou’d suppose

(But that from sight, the surest sense, he knows)

They from th’ included yolk, not ambient white, arose.

There are, who think the marrow of a man,

Which in the spine, while he was living, ran;

When dead, the pith corrupted will become

A snake, and hiss within the hollow tomb.

All these receive their birth from other things;

But from himself the Phoenix only springs:

Self-born, begotten by the parent flame

In which he burn’d, another, and the same;

Who not by corn, or herbs his life sustains,

But the sweet essence of Amomum drains:

And watches the rich gums Arabia bears,

While yet in tender dew they drop their tears.

He (his five centuries of life fulfill’d)

His nest on oaken boughs begins to build,

Or trembling tops of palm, and first he draws

The plan with his broad bill, and crooked claws,

Nature’s artificers; on this the pile

Is form’d, and rises round, then with the spoil

Of Casia, Cynamon, and stems of Nard

(For softness strew’d beneath) his fun’ral bed is rear’d:

Fun’ral and bridal both; and all around

The borders with corruptless myrrh are crown’d,

On this incumbent; ’till aetherial flame

First catches, then consumes the costly frame:

Consumes him too, as on the pile he lies;

He liv’d on odours, and in odours dies.

An infant Phoenix from the former springs,

His father’s heir, and from his tender wings

Shakes off his parent dust, his method he pursues,

And the same lease of life on the same terms renews.

When grown to manhood he begins his reign,

And with stiff pinions can his flight sustain,

He lightens of its load the tree that bore

His father’s royal sepulcher before,

And his own cradle: this (with pious care

Plac’d on his back) he cuts the buxome air,

Seeks the Sun’s city, and his sacred church,

And decently lays down his burden in the porch.

A wonder more amazing wou’d we find?

Th’ Hyaena shows it, of a double kind,

Varying the sexes in alternate years,

In one begets, and in another bears.

The thin Camelion fed with air, receives

The colour of the thing, to which he cleaves.

India when conquer’d, on the conqu’ring God

For planted vines the sharp-ey’d Lynx bestow’d,

Whose urine, shed before it touches Earth,

Congeals in air, and gives to gems their birth.

So Coral soft, and white in ocean’s bed,

Comes harden’d up in air, and glows with red.

All changing species should my song recite;

Before I ceas’d, wou’d change the day to night.

Nations, and empires flourish, and decay,

By turns command, and in their turns obey;

Time softens hardy people, time again

Hardens to war a soft, unwarlike train.

Thus Troy for ten long years her foes withstood,

And daily bleeding bore th’ expence of blood:

Now for thick streets it shows an empty space,

Or only fill’d with tombs of her own perish’d race,

Her self becomes the sepulcher of what she was.

Mycené, Sparta, Thebes of mighty fame,

Are vanish’d out of substance into name.

And Dardan Rome that just begins to rise,

On Tiber’s banks, in time shall mate the skies:

Widening her bounds, and working on her way;

Ev’n now she meditates imperial sway:

Yet this is change, but she by changing thrives,

Like moons new-born, and in her cradle strives

To fill her infant-horns; an hour shall come,

When the round world shall be contain’d in Rome.

For thus old saws foretel, and Helenus

Anchises’ drooping son enliven’d thus:

When Ilium now was in a sinking state;

And he was doubtful of his future fate:

O Goddess-born, with thy hard fortune strive,

Troy never can be lost, and thou alive.

Thy passage thou shalt free through fire, and sword,

And Troy in foreign lands shall be restor’d.

In happier fields a rising town I see

Greater, than what e’er was, or is, or e’er shall be:

And Heav’n yet owes the world a race deriv’d from thee.

Sages, and chiefs, of other lineage born,

The city shall extend, extended shall adorn:

But from lulus he must draw his breath,

By whom thy Rome shall rule the conquer’d Earth:

Whom Heav’n will lend Mankind on Earth to reign,

And late require the precious pledge again.

This Helenus to great Aeneas told,

Which I retain, e’er since in other mould

My soul was cloath’d; and now rejoice to view

My country walls rebuilt, and Troy reviv’d anew,

Rais’d by the fall, decreed by loss to gain;

Enslav’d but to be free, and conquer’d but to reign.

’Tis time my hard-mouth’d coursers to controul,

Apt to run riot, and transgress the goal:

And therefore I conclude, Whatever lies,

In Earth, or flits in air, or fills the skies,

All suffer change; and we, that are of soul

And body mix’d, are members of the whole.

Then when our sires, or grandsires, shall forsake

The forms of men, and brutal figures take,

Thus hous’d, securely let their spirits rest,

Nor violate thy father in the beast,

Thy friend, thy brother, any of thy kin,

If none of these, yet there’s a man within:

O spare to make a Thyestaean meal,

T’ inclose his body, and his soul expel.

Ill customs by degrees to habits rise,

Ill habits soon become exalted vice:

What more advance can mortals make in sin

So near perfection, who with blood begin?

Deaf to the calf, that lyes beneath the knife,

Looks up, and from her butcher begs her life:

Deaf to the harmless kid, that ere he dies

All methods to procure thy mercy tries,

And imitates in vain thy children’s cries.

Where will he stop, who feeds with houshold bread,

Then eats the poultry, which before he fed?

Let plough thy steers; that when they lose their breath,

To Nature, not to thee, they may impute their death.

Let goats for food their loaded udders lend,

And sheep from winter-cold thy sides defend;

But neither sprindges, nets, nor snares employ,

And be no more ingenious to destroy.

Free as in air, let birds on Earth remain,

Nor let insidious glue their wings constrain;

Nor opening hounds the trembling stag affright,

Nor purple feathers intercept his flight:

Nor hooks conceal’d in baits for fish prepare,

Nor lines to heave ’em twinkling up in air.

Take not away the life you cannot give,

For all things have an equal right to live.

Kill noxious creatures, where ’tis sin to save;

This only just prerogative we have:

But nourish life with vegetable food,

And shun the sacrilegious taste of blood.

These precepts by the Samian sage were taught,

Which God-like Numa to the Sabines brought,

And thence transferr’d to Rome, by gift his own:

A willing people, and an offer’d throne.

O happy monarch, sent by Heav’n to bless

A salvage nation with soft arts of peace,

To teach religion, rapine to restrain,

Give laws to lust, and sacrifice ordain:

Himself a saint, a Goddess was his bride,

And all the Muses o’er his acts preside.

Advanc’d in years he dy’d; one common date

His reign concluded, and his mortal state.

Their tears plebeians, and patricians shed,

And pious matrons wept their monarch dead.

His mournful wife, her sorrows to bewail,

Withdrew from Rome, and sought th’ Arician vale.

Hid in thick woods, she made incessant moans,

Disturbing Cinthia’s sacred rites with groans.

How oft the nymphs, who rul’d the wood and lake,

Reprov’d her tears, and words of comfort spice!

How oft (in vain) the son of Theseus said,

Thy stormy sorrows be with patience laid;

Nor are thy fortunes to be wept alone,

Weigh others’ woes, and learn to bear thine own,

Be mine an instance to asswage thy grief:

Would mine were none! — yet mine may bring relief.

You’ve heard, perhaps, in conversation told,

What once befel Hippolytus of old;

To death by Theseus’ easie faith betray’d,

And caught in snares his wicked step-dame laid.

The wondrous tale your credit scarce may claim,

Yet (strange to say) in me behold the same,

Whom lustful Phaedra oft had press’d in vain,

With impious joys, my father’s bed to stain;

’Till seiz’d with fear, or by revenge inspir’d,

She charg’d on me the crimes herself desir’d.

Expell’d by Theseus, from his home I fled

With heaps of curses on my guiltless head.

Forlorn, I sought Pitthëan Troezen’s land,

And drove my chariot o’er Corinthus’ strand;

When from the surface of the level main

A billow rising, heav’d above the plain;

Rolling, and gath’ring, ’till so high it swell’d,

A mountain’s height th’ enormous mass excell’d;

Then bellowing, burst; when from the summit cleav’d,

A horned bull his ample chest upheav’d.

His mouth, and nostrils, storms of briny rain,

Expiring, blew. Dread horror seiz’d my train.

I stood unmov’d. My father’s cruel doom

Claim’d all my soul, nor fear could find a room.

Amaz’d, awhile my trembling coursers stood

With prick’d up ears, contemplating the flood;

Then starting sudden, from the dreadful view,

At once, like lightning, from the seas they flew,

And o’er the craggy rocks the rattling chariot drew.

In vain to stop the hot-mouth’d steeds I try’d,

And bending backward all my strength apply’d;

The frothy foam in driving flakes distains

The bits, and bridles, and bedews the reins.

But tho’, as yet untam’d they run, at length

Their heady rage had tir’d beneath my strength,

When in the spokes, a stump intangling, tore

The shatter’d wheel, and from its axle bore.

The shock impetuous tost me from the seat,

Caught in the reins beneath my horse’s feet.

My reeking guts drag’d out alive, around

The jagged strump, my trembling nerves were wound,

Then stretch’d the well-knit limbs, in pieces hal’d,

Part stuck behind, and part the chariot trail’d;

’Till, midst my cracking joints, and breaking bones,

I breath’d away my weary’d soul in groans.

No part distinguish’d from the rest was found,

But all my parts an universal wound.

Now say, self-tortur’d nymph, can you compare

Our griefs as equal, or in justice dare?

I saw besides the darksome realms of woe,

And bath’d my wounds in smoking streams below.

There I had staid, nor second life injoy’d,

But Poean’s son his wondrous art imploy’d.

To light restor’d, by medicinal skill,

In spight of Fate, and rigid Pluto’s will,

Th’ invidious object to preserve from view,

A misty cloud around me Cynthia threw;

And lest my sight should stir my foes to rage,

She stamp’d my visage with the marks of age.

My former hue was chang’d, and for it shown

A set of features, and a face unknown.

A-while the Goddess stood in doubt, or Crete,

Or Delos’ isle, to chuse for my retreat.

Delos, and Crete refus’d, this wood she chose,

Bad me my former luckless name depose,

Which kept alive the mem’ry of my woes;

Then said, Immortal life be thine; and thou,

Hippolytus once call’d, be Virbius now.

Here then a God, but of th’ inferior race,

I serve my Goddess, and attend her chace.

But others’ woes were useless to appease

Egeria’s grief, or set her mind at ease.

Beneath the hill, all comfortless she laid,

The dropping tears her eyes incessant shed,

’Till pitying Phoebe eas’d her pious woe,

Thaw’d to a spring, whose streams for ever flow.

The nymphs, and Virbius, like amazement fill’d,

As seiz’d the swains, who Tyrrhene furrows till’d;

When heaving up, a clod was seen to roll,

Untouch’d, self-mov’d, and big with human soul.

The spreading mass in former shape depos’d,

Began to shoot, and arms and legs disclos’d,

’Till form’d a perfect man, the living mold

Op’d its new mouth, and future truths foretold;

And Tages nam’d by natives of the place,

Taught arts prophetic to the Tuscan race.

Or such as once by Romulus was shown,

Who saw his lance with sprouting leaves o’er-grown,

When fix’d in Earth the point began to shoot,

And growing downward turn’d a fibrous root;

While spread aloft the branching arms display’d,

O’er wondring crowds, an unexpected shade.

Or as when Cippus in the current view’d

The shooting horns that on his forehead stood,

His temples first he feels, and with surprize

His touch confirms th’ assurance of his eyes.

Streight to the skies his horned front he rears,

And to the Gods directs these pious pray’rs.

If this portent be prosp’rous, O decree

To Rome th’ event; if otherwise, to me.

An altar then of turf he hastes to raise,

Rich gums in fragrant exhalations blaze;

The panting entrails crackle as they fry,

And boding fumes pronounce a mystery,

Soon as the augur saw the holy fire,

And victims with presaging signs expire,

To Cippus then he turns his eyes with speed,

And views the horny honours of his head:

Then cry’d, Hail conqueror! thy call obey,

Those omens I behold presage thy sway.

Rome waits thy nod, unwilling to be free,

And owns thy sov’reign pow’r as Fate’s decree.

He said — and Cippus, starting at th’ event,

Spoke in these words his pious discontent.

Far hence, ye Gods, this execration send,

And the great race of Romulus defend.

Better that I in exile live abhorr’d,

Than e’er the Capitol shou’d style me lord.

This spoke, he hides with leaves his omen’d head.

Then prays, the senate next convenes, and said:

If augurs can foresee, a wretch is come,

Design’d by destiny the bane of Rome.

Two horns (most strange to tell) his temples crown;

If e’er he pass the walls, and gain the town,

Your laws are forfeit, that ill-fated hour;

And liberty must yield to lawless pow’r.

Your gates he might have enter’d; but this arm

Seiz’d the usurper, and with-held the harm.

Haste, find the monster out, and let him be

Condemn’d to all the senate can decree;

Or ty’d in chains, or into exile thrown;

Or by the tyrant’s death prevent your own.

The crowd such murmurs utter as they stand,

As swelling surges breaking on the strand;

Or as when gath’ring gales sweep o’er the grove,

And their tall heads the bending cedars move.

Each with confusion gaz’d, and then began

To feel his fellow’s brows, and find the man.

Cippus then shakes his garland off, and cries,

The wretch you want, I offer to your eyes.

The anxious throng look’d down, and sad in thought,

All wish’d they had not found the sign they sought:

In haste with laurel wreaths his head they bind;

Such honour to such virtue was assign’d.

Then thus the senate — Hear, o Cippus, hear;

So god-like is thy tutelary care,

That since in Rome thy self forbids thy stay,

For thy abode those acres we convey

The plough-share can surround, the labour of a day.

In deathless records thou shalt stand inroll’d,

And Rome’s rich posts shall shine with horns of gold.

Melodious maids of Pindus, who inspire

The flowing strains, and tune the vocal lyre;

Tradition’s secrets are unlock’d to you,

Old tales revive, and ages past renew;

You, who can hidden causes best expound,

Say, whence the isle, which Tiber flows around,

Its altars with a heav’nly stranger grac’d,

And in our shrines the God of physic plac’d.

A wasting plague infected Latium’s skies;

Pale, bloodless looks were seen, with ghastly eyes;

The dire disease’s marks each visage wore,

And the pure blood was chang’d to putrid gore:

In vain were human remedies apply’d;

In vain the pow’r of healing herbs was try’d:

Weary’d with death, they seek celestial aid,

And visit Phoebus in his Delphic shade;

In the world’s centre sacred Delphos stands,

And gives its oracles to distant lands:

Here they implore the God, with fervent vows,

His salutary pow’r to interpose,

And end a great afflicted city’s woes.

The holy temple sudden tremors prov’d;

The laurel grove and all its quivers mov’d;

In hollow sounds the priestess, thus, began,

And thro’ each bosom thrilling horrors ran.

“Th’ assistance, Roman, which you here implore,

Seek from another, and a nearer shore;

Relief must be implor’d, and succour won,

Not from Apollo, but Apollo’s son;

My son, to Latium born, shall bring redress:

Go with good omens, and expect success.”

When these clear oracles the senate knew;

The sacred tripod’s counsels they pursue,

Depute a pious and a chosen band,

Who sail to Epidaurus’ neighb’ring land:

Before the Graecian elders when they stood,

They pray ’em to bestow the healing God:

“Ordain’d was he to save Ausonia’s state;

So promis’d Delphi, and unerring Fate.”

Opinions various their debates enlarge:

Some plead to yield to Rome the sacred charge;

Others, tenacious of their country’s wealth,

Refuse to grant the pow’r, who guards its health.

While dubious they remain’d, the wasting light

Withdrew before the growing shades of night;

Now, Roman, clos’d in sleep were mortal eyes,

When health’s auspicious God appears to thee,

And thy glad dreams his form celestial see:

In his left hand, a rural staff preferr’d,

His right is seen to stroke his decent beard.

“Dismiss,” said he, with mildness all divine,

“Dismiss your fears; I come, and leave my shrine;

This serpent view, that with ambitious play

My staff encircles, mark him ev’ry way;

His form, tho’ larger, nobler, I’ll assume,

And chang’d, as Gods should be, bring aid to Rome.”

Here fled the vision, and the vision’s flight

Was follow’d by the chearful dawn of light.

Now was the morn with blushing streaks o’erspread,

And all the starry fires of Heav’n were fled;

The chiefs perplex’d, and fill’d with doubtful care,

To their protector’s sumptuous roofs repair,

By genuin signs implore him to express,

What seats he deigns to chuse, what land to bless:

Scarce their ascending pray’rs had reach’d the sky;

Lo, the serpentine God, erected high!

Forerunning hissings his approach confest;

Bright shone his golden scales, and wav’d his lofty crest;

The trembling altar his appearance spoke;

The marble floor, and glittering ceiling shook;

The doors were rock’d; the statue seem’d to nod;

And all the fabric own’d the present God:

His radiant chest he taught aloft to rise,

And round the temple cast his flaming eyes:

Struck was th’ astonish’d crowd; the holy priest,

His temples with white bands of ribbon drest,

With rev’rent awe the Power divine confest!

The God! the God! he cries; all tongues be still!

Each conscious breast devoutest ardour fill!

O beauteous! O divine! assist our cares,

And be propitious to thy vot’ries prayers!

All with consenting hearts, and pious fear,

The words repeat, the deity revere:

The Romans in their holy worship join’d,

With silent awe, and purity of mind:

Gracious to them, his crest is seen to nod,

And, as an earnest of his care, the God,

Thrice hissing, vibrates thrice his forked tongue;

And now the smooth descent he glides along:

Still on the ancient seats he bends his eyes,

In which his statue breaths, his altars rise;

His long-lov’d shrine with kind concern he leaves,

And to forsake th’ accustom’d mansion grieves:

At length, his sweeping bulk in state is born

Thro’ the throng’d streets, which scatter’d flowers adorn;

Thro’ many a fold he winds his mazy course,

And gains the port and moles, which break the ocean’s force.

’Twas here he made a stand, and having view’d

The pious train, who his last steps pursu’d,

Seem’d to dismiss their zeal with gracious eyes,

While gleams of pleasure in his aspect rise.

And now the Latian vessel he ascends;

Beneath the weighty God the vessel bends:

The Latins on the strand great Jove appease,

Their cables loose, and plough the yielding seas:

The high-rear’d serpent from the stern displays

His gorgeous form, and the blue deep surveys;

The ship is wafted on with gentle gales,

And o’er the calm Ionian smoothly sails;

On the sixth morn th’ Italian coast they gain,

And touch Lacinia, grac’d with Juno’s fane;

Now fair Calabria to the sight is lost,

And all the cities on her fruitful coast;

They pass at length the rough Sicilian shore,

The Brutian soil, rich with metalic ore,

The famous isles, where Aeolus was king,

And Paestum blooming with eternal Spring:

Minerva’s cape they leave, and Capreae’s isle,

Campania, on whose hills the vineyards smile,

The city, which Alcides’ spoils adorn,

Naples, for soft delight and pleasure born;

Fair Stabiae, with Cumean Sibyl’s seats,

And Baia’s tepid baths, and green retreats;

Linternum next they reach, where balmy gums

Distil from mastic trees, and spread perfumes:

Caieta, from the nurse so nam’d, for whom

With pious care Aeneas rais’d a tomb,

Vulturne, whose whirlpools suck the numerous sands,

And Trachas, and Minturnea’s marshy lands,

And Formia’s coast is left, and Circe’s plain,

Which yet remembers her enchanting reign;

To Antium, last, his côurse the pilot guides.

Here, while the anchor’d vessel safely rides

(For now the rufled deep portends a storm),

The spiry God unfolds his spheric form,

Thro’ large indentings draws his lubric train,

And seeks the refuge of Apollo’s fane;

The fane is situate on the yellow shore:

When the sea smil’d, and the winds rag’d no more,

He leaves his father’s hospitable lands,

And furrows, with his rattling scales, the sands

Along the coast; at length the ship regains,

And sails to Tibur, and Lavinum’s plains.

Here mingling crowds to meet their patron came,

Ev’n the chast guardians of the Vestal flame,

From every part tumultuous they repair,

And joyful acclamations rend the air:

Along the flowry banks, on either side,

Where the tall ship floats on the swelling tide,

Dispos’d in decent order altars rise,

And crackling incense, as it mounts the skies,

The air with sweets refreshes; while the knife,

Warm with the victim’s blood, lets out the streaming life.

The world’s great mistress, Rome, receives him now;

On the mast’s top reclin’d he waves his brow,

And from that height surveys the great abodes,

And mansions, worthy of residing Gods.

The land, a narrow neck, it self extends,

Round which his course the stream divided bends;

The stream’s two arms, on either side, are seen,

Stretch’d out in equal length; the land between.

The isle, so call’d from hence derives its name:

’Twas here the salutary serpent came;

Nor sooner has he left the Latian pine,

But he assumes again his form divine,

And now no more the drooping city mourns,

Joy is again restor’d, and health returns.

But Aesculapius was a foreign power:

In his own city Caesar we adore:

Him arms, and arts alike renown’d beheld,

In peace conspicuous, dreadful in the field;

His rapid conquest, and swift-finish’d wars,

The hero justly fix’d among the stars;

Yet is his progeny his greatest fame:

The son immortal makes the father’s name.

The sea-girt Britons, by his courage tam’d,

For their high rocky cliffs, and fierceness fam’d;

His dreadful navies, which victorious rode

O’er Nile’s affrighted waves and seven-sourc’d flood;

Numidia, and the spacious realms regain’d;

Where Cinyphis or flows, or Juba reign’d;

The powers of titled Mithridates broke,

And Pontus added to the Roman yoke;

Triumphal shows decreed, for conquests won,

For conquests, which the triumphs still outshone;

These are great deeds; yet less, than to have giv’n

The world a lord, in whom, propitious Heav’n,

When you decreed the sov’reign rule to place,

You blest with lavish bounty human race.

Now lest so great a prince might seem to rise

Of mortal stem, his sire much reach the skies;

The beauteous Goddess, that Aeneas bore,

Foresaw it, and foreseeing did deplore;

For well she knew her hero’s fate was nigh,

Devoted by conspiring arms to die.

Trembling, and pale, to every God, she cry’d,

Behold, what deep and subtle arts are try’d,

To end the last, the only branch that springs

From my lulus, and the Dardan kings!

How bent they are! how desp’rate to destroy

All that is left me of unhappy Troy!

Am I alone by Fate ordain’d to know

Uninterrupted care, and endless woe!

Now from Tydides’ spear I feel the wound:

Now Ilium’s tow’rs the hostile flames surround:

Troy laid in dust, my exil’d son I mourn,

Thro’ angry seas, and raging billows born;

O’er the wide deep his wandring course he bends;

Now to the sullen shades of Styx descends,

With Turnus driv’n at last fierce wars to wage,

Or rather with unpitying Juno’s rage.

But why record I now my ancient woes?

Sense of past ills in present fears I lose;

On me their points the impious daggers throw;

Forbid it, Gods, repel the direful blow:

If by curs’d weapons Numa’s priest expires,

No longer shall ye burn, ye Vestal fires.

While such complainings Cypria’s grief disclose;

In each celestial breast compassion rose:

Not Gods can alter Fate’s resistless will;

Yet they foretold by signs th’ approaching ill.

Dreadful were heard, among the clouds, alarms

Of ecchoing trumpets, and of clashing arms;

The Sun’s pale image gave so faint a light,

That the sad Earth was almost veil’d in night;

The Aether’s face with fiery meteors glow’d;

With storms of hail were mingled drops of blood;

A dusky hue the morning star o’erspread,

And the Moon’s orb was stain’d with spots of red;

In every place portentous shrieks were heard,

The fatal warnings of th’ infernal bird;

In ev’ry place the marble melts to tears;

While in the groves, rever’d thro’ length of years,

Boding, and awful sounds the ear invade;

And solemn music warbles thro’ the shade;

No victim can attone the impious age,

No sacrifice the wrathful Gods asswage;

Dire wars and civil fury threat the state;

And every omen points out Caesar’s fate:

Around each hallow’d shrine, and sacred dome,

Night-howling dogs disturb the peaceful gloom;

Their silent seats the wandring shades forsake,

And fearful tremblings the rock’d city shake.

Yet could not, by these prodigies, be broke

The plotted charm, or staid the fatal stroke;

Their swords th’ assassins in the temple draw;

Their murth’ring hands nor Gods nor temples awe;

This sacred place their bloody weapons stain,

And Virtue falls, before the altar slain.

’Twas now fair Cypria, with her woes opprest,

In raging anguish smote her heav’nly breast;

Wild with distracting fears, the Goddess try’d

Her hero’ in th’ etherial cloud to hide,

The cloud, which youthful Paris did conceal,

When Menelaus urg’d the threatning steel;

The cloud, which once deceiv’d Tydides’ sight,

And sav’d Aeneas in th’ unequal fight.

When Jove — In vain, fair daughter, you assay

To o’er-rule destiny’s unconquer’d sway:

Your doubts to banish, enter Fate’s abode;

A privilege to heav’nly powers allow’d;

There shall you see the records grav’d, in length,

On ir’n and solid brass, with mighty strength;

Which Heav’n’s and Earth’s concussion shall endure,

Maugre all shocks, eternal, and secure:

There, on perennial adamant design’d,

The various fortunes of your race you’ll find:

Well I have mark’d ’em, and will now relate

To thee the settled laws of future Fate.

He, Goddess, for whose death the Fates you blame,

Has finish’d his determin’d course with Fame:

To thee ’tis giv’n at length, that he shall shine

Among the Gods, and grace the worship’d shrine:

His son to all his greatness shall be heir,

And worthily succeed to empire’s care:

Our self will lead his wars, resolv’d to aid

The brave avenger of his father’s shade:

To him its freedom Mutina shall owe,

And Decius his auspicious conduct know;

His dreadful powers shall shake Pharsalia’s plain,

And drench in gore Philippi’s fields again:

A mighty leader, in Sicilia’s flood,

Great Pompey’s warlike son, shall be subdu’d:

Aegypt’s soft queen, adorn’d with fatal charms,

Shall mourn her soldier’s unsuccessful arms:

Too late shall find her swelling hopes were vain,

And know, that Rome o’er Memphis still must reign:

What name I Afric, or Nile’s hidden head?

Far as both oceans roll, his power shall spread:

All the known Earth to him shall homage pay,

And the seas own his universal sway:

When cruel war no more disturbs Mankind;

To civil studies shall he bend his mind,

With equal justice guardian laws ordain,

And by his great example vice restrain:

Where will his bounty or his goodness end?

To times unborn his gen’rous views extend;

The virtues of his heir our praise engage,

And promise blessings to the coming age:

Late shall he in his kindred orbs be placed,

With Pylian years, and crowded honours graced.

Mean-time, your hero’s fleeting spirit bear,

Fresh from his wounds, and change it to a star:

So shall great Julius rites divine assume,

And from the skies eternal smile on Rome.

This spoke, the Goddess to the senate flew;

Where, her fair form conceal’d from mortal view,

Her Caesar’s heav’nly part she made her care,

Nor left the recent soul to waste to air;

But bore it upwards to its native skies:

Glowing with new-born fires she saw it rise;

Forth springing from her bosom up it flew,

And kindling, as it soar’d, a comet grew:

Above the lunar sphere it took its flight,

And shot behind it a long trail of light.

Thus rais’d, his glorious off-spring Julius view’d,

Beneficently great, and scattering good,

Deeds, that his own surpass’d, with joy beheld,

And his large heart dilates to be excell’d.

What tho’ this prince refuses to receive

The preference, which his juster subjects give;

Fame uncontroll’d, that no restraint obeys,

The homage, shunn’d by modest virtue, pays,

And proves disloyal only in his praise.

Tho’ great his sire, him greater we proclaim:

So Atreus yields to Agamemnon’s fame;

Achilles so superior honours won,

And Peleus must submit to Peleus’ son;

Examples yet more noble to disclose,

So Saturn was eclips’d, when Jove to empire rose;

Jove rules the Heav’ns, the Earth Augustus sways;

Each claims a monarch’s, and a father’s praise.

Celestials, who for Rome your cares employ;

Ye Gods, who guarded the remains of Troy;

Ye native Gods, here born, and fix’d by Fate;

Quirinus, founder of the Roman state;

O parent Mars, from whom Quirinus sprung;

Chaste Vesta, Caesar’s household Gods among,

Most sacred held; domestic Phoebus, thou,

To whom with Vesta chaste alike we bow;

Great guardian of the high Tarpeian rock;

And all ye Pow’rs, whom poets may invoke;

O grant, that day may claim our sorrows late,

When lov’d Augustus shall submit to Fate,.

Visit those seats, where Gods and heroes dwell,

And leave, in tears, the world he rul’d so well!

The work is finish’d, which nor dreads the rage

Of tempests, fire, or war, or wasting age;

Come, soon or late, death’s undetermin’d day,

This mortal being only can decay;

My nobler part, my fame, shall reach the skies,

And to late times with blooming honours rise:

Whate’er th’ unbounded Roman power obeys,

All climes and nations shall record my praise:

If ’tis allow’d to poets to divine,

One half of round eternity is mine.