Metamorphōsēs

Book I

My soul is wrought to sing of forms transformed
to bodies new and strange! Immortal Gods
inspire my heart, for ye have changed yourselves
and all things you have changed! Oh lead my song
in smooth and measured strains, from olden days
when earth began to this completed time!
Before the ocean and the earth appeared—
before the skies had overspread them all—
the face of Nature in a vast expanse
was naught but Chaos uniformly waste.
It was a rude and undeveloped mass,
that nothing made except a ponderous weight;
and all discordant elements confused,
were there congested in a shapeless heap.

As yet the sun afforded earth no light,
nor did the moon renew her crescent horns;
the earth was not suspended in the air
exactly balanced by her heavy weight.
Not far along the margin of the shores
had Amphitrite stretched her lengthened arms,—
for all the land was mixed with sea and air.
The land was soft, the sea unfit to sail,
the atmosphere opaque, to naught was given
a proper form, in everything was strife,
and all was mingled in a seething mass—
with hot the cold parts strove, and wet with dry
and soft with hard, and weight with empty void.

But God, or kindly Nature, ended strife—
he cut the land from skies, the sea from land,
the heavens ethereal from material air;
and when were all evolved from that dark mass
he bound the fractious parts in tranquil peace.
The fiery element of convex heaven
leaped from the mass devoid of dragging weight,
and chose the summit arch to which the air
as next in quality was next in place.
The earth more dense attracted grosser parts
and moved by gravity sank underneath;
and last of all the wide surrounding waves
in deeper channels rolled around the globe.

And when this God —which one is yet unknown—
had carved asunder that discordant mass,
had thus reduced it to its elements,
that every part should equally combine,
when time began He rounded out the earth
and moulded it to form a mighty globe.
Then poured He forth the deeps and gave command
that they should billow in the rapid winds,
that they should compass every shore of earth.
he also added fountains, pools and lakes,
and bound with shelving banks the slanting streams,
which partly are absorbed and partly join
the boundless ocean. Thus received amid
the wide expanse of uncontrolled waves,
they beat the shores instead of crooked banks.

At His command the boundless plains extend,
the valleys are depressed, the woods are clothed
in green, the stony mountains rise. And as
the heavens are intersected on the right
by two broad zones, by two that cut the left,
and by a fifth consumed with ardent heat,
with such a number did the careful God
mark off the compassed weight, and thus the earth
received as many climes.—Such heat consumes
the middle zone that none may dwell therein;
and two extremes are covered with deep snow;
and two are placed betwixt the hot and cold,
which mixed together give a temperate clime;
and over all the atmosphere suspends
with weight proportioned to the fiery sky,
exactly as the weight of earth compares
with weight of water.

And He ordered mist
to gather in the air and spread the clouds.
He fixed the thunders that disturb our souls,
and brought the lightning on destructive winds
that also waft the cold. Nor did the great
Artificer permit these mighty winds
to blow unbounded in the pathless skies,
but each discordant brother fixed in space,
although His power can scarce restrain their rage
to rend the universe. At His command
to far Aurora, Eurus took his way,
to Nabath, Persia, and that mountain range
first gilded by the dawn; and Zephyr's flight
was towards the evening star and peaceful shores,
warm with the setting sun; and Boreas
invaded Scythia and the northern snows;
and Auster wafted to the distant south
where clouds and rain encompass his abode.—
and over these He fixed the liquid sky,
devoid of weight and free from earthly dross.

And scarcely had He separated these
and fixed their certain bounds, when all the stars,
which long were pressed and hidden in the mass,
began to gleam out from the plains of heaven,
and traversed, with the Gods, bright ether fields:
and lest some part might be bereft of life
the gleaming waves were filled with twinkling fish;
the earth was covered with wild animals;
the agitated air was filled with birds.

But one more perfect and more sanctified,
a being capable of lofty thought,
intelligent to rule, was wanting still
man was created! Did the Unknown God
designing then a better world make man
of seed divine? or did Prometheus
take the new soil of earth (that still contained
some godly element of Heaven's Life)
and use it to create the race of man;
first mingling it with water of new streams;
so that his new creation, upright man,
was made in image of commanding Gods?
On earth the brute creation bends its gaze,
but man was given a lofty countenance
and was commanded to behold the skies;
and with an upright face may view the stars:—
and so it was that shapeless clay put on
the form of man till then unknown to earth.
First was the Golden Age. Then rectitude
spontaneous in the heart prevailed, and faith.
Avengers were not seen, for laws unframed
were all unknown and needless. Punishment
and fear of penalties existed not.
No harsh decrees were fixed on brazen plates.
No suppliant multitude the countenance
of Justice feared, averting, for they dwelt
without a judge in peace. Descended not
the steeps, shorn from its height, the lofty pine,
cleaving the trackless waves of alien shores,
nor distant realms were known to wandering men.
The towns were not entrenched for time of war;
they had no brazen trumpets, straight, nor horns
of curving brass, nor helmets, shields nor swords.
There was no thought of martial pomp —secure
a happy multitude enjoyed repose.

Then of her own accord the earth produced
a store of every fruit. The harrow touched
her not, nor did the plowshare wound
her fields. And man content with given food,
and none compelling, gathered arbute fruits
and wild strawberries on the mountain sides,
and ripe blackberries clinging to the bush,
and corners and sweet acorns on the ground,
down fallen from the spreading tree of Jove.
Eternal Spring! Soft breathing zephyrs soothed
and warmly cherished buds and blooms, produced
without a seed. The valleys though unplowed
gave many fruits; the fields though not renewed
white glistened with the heavy bearded wheat:
rivers flowed milk and nectar, and the trees,
the very oak trees, then gave honey of themselves.

When Saturn had been banished into night
and all the world was ruled by Jove supreme,
the Silver Age, though not so good as gold
but still surpassing yellow brass, prevailed.

Jove first reduced to years the Primal Spring,
by him divided into periods four,
unequal,—summer, autumn, winter, spring.—
then glowed with tawny heat the parched air,
or pendent icicles in winter froze
and man stopped crouching in crude caverns, while
he built his homes of tree rods, bark entwined.
Then were the cereals planted in long rows,
and bullocks groaned beneath the heavy yoke.

The third Age followed, called The Age of Bronze,
when cruel people were inclined to arms
but not to impious crimes. And last of all
the ruthless and hard Age of Iron prevailed,
from which malignant vein great evil sprung;
and modesty and faith and truth took flight,
and in their stead deceits and snares and frauds
and violence and wicked love of gain,
succeeded.—Then the sailor spread his sails
to winds unknown, and keels that long had stood
on lofty mountains pierced uncharted waves.
Surveyors anxious marked with metes and bounds
the lands, created free as light and air:
nor need the rich ground furnish only crops,
and give due nourishment by right required,—
they penetrated to the bowels of earth
and dug up wealth, bad cause of all our ills,—
rich ores which long ago the earth had hid
and deep removed to gloomy Stygian caves:
and soon destructive iron and harmful gold
were brought to light; and War, which uses both,
came forth and shook with sanguinary grip
his clashing arms. Rapacity broke forth—
the guest was not protected from his host,
the father in law from his own son in law;
even brothers seldom could abide in peace.
The husband threatened to destroy his wife,
and she her husband: horrid step dames mixed
the deadly henbane: eager sons inquired
their fathers, ages. Piety was slain:
and last of all the virgin deity,
Astraea vanished from the blood-stained earth.
And lest ethereal heights should long remain
less troubled than the earth, the throne of Heaven
was threatened by the Giants; and they piled
mountain on mountain to the lofty stars.
But Jove, omnipotent, shot thunderbolts
through Mount Olympus, and he overturned
from Ossa huge, enormous Pelion.
And while these dreadful bodies lay overwhelmed
in their tremendous bulk, (so fame reports)
the Earth was reeking with the copious blood
of her gigantic sons; and thus replete
with moisture she infused the steaming gore
with life renewed. So that a monument
of such ferocious stock should be retained,
she made that offspring in the shape of man;
but this new race alike despised the Gods,
and by the greed of savage slaughter proved
a sanguinary birth.
When, from his throne
supreme, the Son of Saturn viewed their deeds,
he deeply groaned: and calling to his mind
the loathsome feast Lycaon had prepared,
a recent deed not common to report,
his soul conceived great anger —worthy Jove—
and he convened a council. No delay
detained the chosen Gods.

When skies are clear
a path is well defined on high, which men,
because so white, have named the Milky Way.
It makes a passage for the deities
and leads to mansions of the Thunder God,
to Jove's imperial home. On either side
of its wide way the noble Gods are seen,

inferior Gods in other parts abide,
but there the potent and renowned of Heaven
have fixed their homes.—It is a glorious place,
our most audacious verse might designate
the “Palace of High Heaven.” When the Gods
were seated, therefore, in its marble halls
the King of all above the throng sat high,
and leaning on his ivory scepter, thrice,
and once again he shook his awful locks,
wherewith he moved the earth, and seas and stars,—
and thus indignantly began to speak;
“The time when serpent footed giants strove
to fix their hundred arms on captive Heaven,
not more than this event could cause alarm
for my dominion of the universe.
Although it was a savage enemy,
yet warred we with a single source derived
of one. Now must I utterly destroy
this mortal race wherever Nereus roars
around the world. Yea, by the Infernal Streams
that glide through Stygian groves beneath the world,
I swear it. Every method has been tried.
The knife must cut immedicable wounds,
lest maladies infect untainted parts.
“Beneath my sway are demi gods and fauns,
nymphs, rustic deities, sylvans of the hills,
satyrs;—all these, unworthy Heaven's abodes,
we should at least permit to dwell on earth
which we to them bequeathed. What think ye, Gods,
is safety theirs when I, your sovereign lord,
the Thunder-bolt Controller, am ensnared
by fierce Lycaon?” Ardent in their wrath,
the astonished Gods demand revenge overtake
this miscreant; he who dared commit such crimes.
'Twas even thus when raged that impious band
to blot the Roman name in sacred blood
of Caesar, sudden apprehensive fears
of ruin absolute astonished man,
and all the world convulsed. Nor is the love
thy people bear to thee, Augustus, less
than these displayed to Jupiter whose voice
and gesture all the murmuring host restrained:
and as indignant clamour ceased, suppressed
by regnant majesty, Jove once again
broke the deep silence with imperial words;
“Dismiss your cares; he paid the penalty
however all the crime and punishment
now learn from this:—An infamous report
of this unholy age had reached my ears,
and wishing it were false, I sloped my course
from high Olympus, and—although a God—
disguised in human form I viewed the world.
It would delay us to recount the crimes
unnumbered, for reports were less than truth.
“I traversed Maenalus where fearful dens
abound, over Lycaeus, wintry slopes
of pine tree groves, across Cyllene steep;
and as the twilight warned of night's approach,
I stopped in that Arcadian tyrant's realms
and entered his inhospitable home:—
and when I showed his people that a God
had come, the lowly prayed and worshiped me,
but this Lycaon mocked their pious vows
and scoffing said; ‘A fair experiment
will prove the truth if this be god or man.’
and he prepared to slay me in the night,—
to end my slumbers in the sleep of death.
So made he merry with his impious proof;
but not content with this he cut the throat
of a Molossian hostage sent to him,
and partly softened his still quivering limbs
in boiling water, partly roasted them
on fires that burned beneath. And when this flesh
was served to me on tables, I destroyed
his dwelling and his worthless Household Gods,
with thunder bolts avenging. Terror struck
he took to flight, and on the silent plains
is howling in his vain attempts to speak;
he raves and rages and his greedy jaws,
desiring their accustomed slaughter, turn
against the sheep—still eager for their blood.
His vesture separates in shaggy hair,
his arms are changed to legs; and as a wolf
he has the same grey locks, the same hard face,
the same bright eyes, the same ferocious look.
“Thus fell one house, but not one house alone
deserved to perish; over all the earth
ferocious deeds prevail,—all men conspire
in evil. Let them therefore feel the weight
of dreadful penalties so justly earned,
for such hath my unchanging will ordained.”

with exclamations some approved the words
of Jove and added fuel to his wrath,
while others gave assent: but all deplored
and questioned the estate of earth deprived
of mortals. Who could offer frankincense
upon the altars? Would he suffer earth
to be despoiled by hungry beasts of prey?
Such idle questions of the state of man
the King of Gods forbade, but granted soon
to people earth with race miraculous,
unlike the first.
And now his thunder bolts
would Jove wide scatter, but he feared the flames,
unnumbered, sacred ether might ignite
and burn the axle of the universe:
and he remembered in the scroll of fate,
there is a time appointed when the sea
and earth and Heavens shall melt, and fire destroy
the universe of mighty labour wrought.
Such weapons by the skill of Cyclops forged,
for different punishment he laid aside—
for straightway he preferred to overwhelm
the mortal race beneath deep waves and storms
from every raining sky. And instantly
he shut the Northwind in Aeolian caves,
and every other wind that might dispel
the gathering clouds. He bade the Southwind blow:—

the Southwind flies abroad with dripping wings,
concealing in the gloom his awful face:
the drenching rain descends from his wet beard
and hoary locks; dark clouds are on his brows
and from his wings and garments drip the dews:
his great hands press the overhanging clouds;
loudly the thunders roll; the torrents pour;
Iris, the messenger of Juno, clad
in many coloured raiment, upward draws
the steaming moisture to renew the clouds.

The standing grain is beaten to the ground,
the rustic's crops are scattered in the mire,
and he bewails the long year's fruitless toil.

The wrath of Jove was not content with powers
that emanate from Heaven; he brought to aid
his azure brother, lord of flowing waves,
who called upon the Rivers and the Streams:
and when they entered his impearled abode,
Neptune, their ancient ruler, thus began;
“A long appeal is needless; pour ye forth
in rage of power; open up your fountains;
rush over obstacles; let every stream
pour forth in boundless floods.” Thus he commands,
and none dissenting all the River Gods
return, and opening up their fountains roll
tumultuous to the deep unfruitful sea.

And Neptune with his trident smote the Earth,
which trembling with unwonted throes heaved up
the sources of her waters bare; and through
her open plains the rapid rivers rushed
resistless, onward bearing the waving grain,

the budding groves, the houses, sheep and men,—
and holy temples, and their sacred urns.
The mansions that remained, resisting vast
and total ruin, deepening waves concealed
and whelmed their tottering turrets in the flood
and whirling gulf. And now one vast expanse,
the land and sea were mingled in the waste
of endless waves—a sea without a shore.

One desperate man seized on the nearest hill;
another sitting in his curved boat,
plied the long oar where he was wont to plow;
another sailed above his grain, above
his hidden dwelling; and another hooked
a fish that sported in a leafy elm.
Perchance an anchor dropped in verdant fields,
or curving keels were pushed through tangled vines;
and where the gracile goat enjoyed the green,
unsightly seals reposed. Beneath the waves
were wondering Nereids, viewing cities, groves
and houses. Dolphins darting mid the trees,
meshed in the twisted branches, beat against
the shaken oak trees. There the sheep, affrayed,
swim with the frightened wolf, the surging waves
float tigers and lions: availeth naught
his lightning shock the wild boar, nor avails
the stag's fleet footed speed. The wandering bird,
seeking umbrageous groves and hidden vales,
with wearied pinion droops into the sea.
The waves increasing surge above the hills,
and rising waters dash on mountain tops.
Myriads by the waves are swept away,
and those the waters spare, for lack of food,
starvation slowly overcomes at last.

A fruitful land and fair but now submerged
beneath a wilderness of rising waves,
'Twixt Oeta and Aonia, Phocis lies,
where through the clouds Parnassus' summits twain
point upward to the stars, unmeasured height,
save which the rolling billows covered all:
there in a small and fragile boat, arrived,
Deucalion and the consort of his couch,
prepared to worship the Corycian Nymphs,
the mountain deities, and Themis kind,
who in that age revealed in oracles
the voice of fate. As he no other lived
so good and just, as she no other feared
the Gods.

When Jupiter beheld the globe
in ruin covered, swept with wasting waves,
and when he saw one man of myriads left,
one helpless woman left of myriads lone,
both innocent and worshiping the Gods,
he scattered all the clouds; he blew away
the great storms by the cold northwind.

Once more
the earth appeared to heaven and the skies
appeared to earth. The fury of the main
abated, for the Ocean ruler laid
his trident down and pacified the waves,
and called on azure Triton.—Triton arose
above the waving seas, his shoulders mailed
in purple shells.—He bade the Triton blow,
blow in his sounding shell, the wandering streams
and rivers to recall with signal known:
a hollow wreathed trumpet, tapering wide
and slender stemmed, the Triton took amain
and wound the pearly shell at midmost sea.
Betwixt the rising and the setting suns
the wildered notes resounded shore to shore,
and as it touched his lips, wet with the brine
beneath his dripping beard, sounded retreat:
and all the waters of the land and sea
obeyed. Their fountains heard and ceased to flow;
their waves subsided; hidden hills uprose;
emerged the shores of ocean; channels filled
with flowing streams; the soil appeared; the land
increased its surface as the waves decreased:
and after length of days the trees put forth,
with ooze on bending boughs, their naked tops.

And all the wasted globe was now restored,
but as he viewed the vast and silent world
Deucalion wept and thus to Pyrrha spoke;
“O sister! wife! alone of woman left!
My kindred in descent and origin!
Dearest companion of my marriage bed,
doubly endeared by deepening dangers borne,—
of all the dawn and eve behold of earth,
but you and I are left—for the deep sea
has kept the rest! And what prevents the tide
from overwhelming us? Remaining clouds
affright us. How could you endure your fears
if you alone were rescued by this fate,
and who would then console your bitter grief?
Oh be assured, if you were buried in the waves,
that I would follow you and be with you!
Oh would that by my father's art I might
restore the people, and inspire this clay
to take the form of man. Alas, the Gods
decreed and only we are living!”, Thus
Deucalion's plaint to Pyrrha;—and they wept.

And after he had spoken, they resolved
to ask the aid of sacred oracles,—
and so they hastened to Cephissian waves
which rolled a turbid flood in channels known.
Thence when their robes and brows were sprinkled well,
they turned their footsteps to the goddess' fane:
its gables were befouled with reeking moss
and on its altars every fire was cold.
But when the twain had reached the temple steps
they fell upon the earth, inspired with awe,
and kissed the cold stone with their trembling lips,
and said; “If righteous prayers appease the Gods,
and if the wrath of high celestial powers
may thus be turned, declare, O Themis! whence
and what the art may raise humanity?
O gentle goddess help the dying world!”

Moved by their supplications, she replied;
“Depart from me and veil your brows; ungird
your robes, and cast behind you as you go,
the bones of your great mother.” Long they stood
in dumb amazement: Pyrrha, first of voice,
refused the mandate and with trembling lips
implored the goddess to forgive—she feared
to violate her mother's bones and vex
her sacred spirit. Often pondered they
the words involved in such obscurity,
repeating oft: and thus Deucalion
to Epimetheus' daughter uttered speech
of soothing import; “ Oracles are just
and urge not evil deeds, or naught avails
the skill of thought. Our mother is the Earth,
and I may judge the stones of earth are bones
that we should cast behind us as we go.”

And although Pyrrha by his words was moved
she hesitated to comply; and both amazed
doubted the purpose of the oracle,
but deemed no harm to come of trial. They,
descending from the temple, veiled their heads
and loosed their robes and threw some stones
behind them. It is much beyond belief,
were not receding ages witness, hard
and rigid stones assumed a softer form,
enlarging as their brittle nature changed
to milder substance,—till the shape of man
appeared, imperfect, faintly outlined first,
as marble statue chiseled in the rough.
The soft moist parts were changed to softer flesh,
the hard and brittle substance into bones,
the veins retained their ancient name. And now
the Gods supreme ordained that every stone
Deucalion threw should take the form of man,
and those by Pyrrha cast should woman's form
assume: so are we hardy to endure
and prove by toil and deeds from what we sprung.
And after this the Earth spontaneous
produced the world of animals, when all
remaining moistures of the mirey fens
fermented in the sun, and fruitful seeds
in soils nutritious grew to shapes ordained.
So when the seven streamed Nile from oozy fields
returneth duly to her ancient bed,
the sun's ethereal rays impregn the slime,
that haply as the peasants turn the soil
they find strange animals unknown before:
some in the moment of their birth, and some
deprived of limbs, imperfect; often part
alive and part of slime inanimate
are fashioned in one body. Heat combined
with moisture so conceives and life results
from these two things. For though the flames may be
the foes of water, everything that lives
begins in humid vapour, and it seems
discordant concord is the means of life.

When Earth, spread over with diluvian ooze,
felt heat ethereal from the glowing sun,
unnumbered species to the light she gave,
and gave to being many an ancient form,
or monster new created. Unwilling she
created thus enormous Python.—Thou
unheard of serpent spread so far athwart
the side of a vast mountain, didst fill with fear
the race of new created man. The God
that bears the bow (a weapon used till then
only to hunt the deer and agile goat)
destroyed the monster with a myriad darts,
and almost emptied all his quiver, till
envenomed gore oozed forth from livid wounds.

Lest in a dark oblivion time should hide
the fame of this achievement, sacred sports
he instituted, from the Python called
“The Pythian Games.” In these the happy youth
who proved victorious in the chariot race,
running and boxing, with an honoured crown
of oak leaves was enwreathed. The laurel then
was not created, wherefore Phoebus, bright
and godlike, beauteous with his flowing hair,
was wont to wreathe his brows with various leaves.
Daphne, the daughter of a River God
was first beloved by Phoebus, the great God
of glorious light. 'Twas not a cause of chance
but out of Cupid's vengeful spite that she
was fated to torment the lord of light.
For Phoebus, proud of Python's death, beheld
that impish god of Love upon a time
when he was bending his diminished bow,
and voicing his contempt in anger said;
“What, wanton boy, are mighty arms to thee,
great weapons suited to the needs of war?
The bow is only for the use of those
large deities of heaven whose strength may deal
wounds, mortal, to the savage beasts of prey;
and who courageous overcome their foes.—
it is a proper weapon to the use
of such as slew with arrows Python, huge,
whose pestilential carcase vast extent
covered. Content thee with the flames thy torch
enkindles (fires too subtle for my thought)
and leave to me the glory that is mine.”

to him, undaunted, Venus, son replied;
“O Phoebus, thou canst conquer all the world
with thy strong bow and arrows, but with this
small arrow I shall pierce thy vaunting breast!
And by the measure that thy might exceeds
the broken powers of thy defeated foes,
so is thy glory less than mine.” No more
he said, but with his wings expanded thence
flew lightly to Parnassus, lofty peak.
There, from his quiver he plucked arrows twain,
most curiously wrought of different art;
one love exciting, one repelling love.
The dart of love was glittering, gold and sharp,
the other had a blunted tip of lead;
and with that dull lead dart he shot the Nymph,
but with the keen point of the golden dart
he pierced the bone and marrow of the God.

Immediately the one with love was filled,
the other, scouting at the thought of love,
rejoiced in the deep shadow of the woods,
and as the virgin Phoebe (who denies
the joys of love and loves the joys of chase)
a maiden's fillet bound her flowing hair,—
and her pure mind denied the love of man.
Beloved and wooed she wandered silent paths,
for never could her modesty endure
the glance of man or listen to his love.

Her grieving father spoke to her, “Alas,
my daughter, I have wished a son in law,
and now you owe a grandchild to the joy
of my old age.” But Daphne only hung
her head to hide her shame. The nuptial torch
seemed criminal to her. She even clung,
caressing, with her arms around his neck,
and pled, “My dearest father let me live
a virgin always, for remember Jove
did grant it to Diana at her birth.”

But though her father promised her desire,
her loveliness prevailed against their will;
for, Phoebus when he saw her waxed distraught,
and filled with wonder his sick fancy raised
delusive hopes, and his own oracles
deceived him.—As the stubble in the field
flares up, or as the stacked wheat is consumed
by flames, enkindled from a spark or torch
the chance pedestrian may neglect at dawn;
so was the bosom of the god consumed,
and so desire flamed in his stricken heart.

He saw her bright hair waving on her neck;—
“How beautiful if properly arranged! ”
He saw her eyes like stars of sparkling fire,
her lips for kissing sweetest, and her hands
and fingers and her arms; her shoulders white
as ivory;—and whatever was not seen
more beautiful must be.

Swift as the wind
from his pursuing feet the virgin fled,
and neither stopped nor heeded as he called;
“O Nymph! O Daphne! I entreat thee stay,
it is no enemy that follows thee—
why, so the lamb leaps from the raging wolf,
and from the lion runs the timid faun,
and from the eagle flies the trembling dove,
all hasten from their natural enemy
but I alone pursue for my dear love.
Alas, if thou shouldst fall and mar thy face,
or tear upon the bramble thy soft thighs,
or should I prove unwilling cause of pain!
“The wilderness is rough and dangerous,
and I beseech thee be more careful—I
will follow slowly.—Ask of whom thou wilt,
and thou shalt learn that I am not a churl—
I am no mountain dweller of rude caves,
nor clown compelled to watch the sheep and goats;
and neither canst thou know from whom thy feet
fly fearful, or thou wouldst not leave me thus.
“The Delphic Land, the Pataraean Realm,
Claros and Tenedos revere my name,
and my immortal sire is Jupiter.
The present, past and future are through me
in sacred oracles revealed to man,
and from my harp the harmonies of sound
are borrowed by their bards to praise the Gods.
My bow is certain, but a flaming shaft
surpassing mine has pierced my heart—
untouched before. The art of medicine
is my invention, and the power of herbs;
but though the world declare my useful works
there is no herb to medicate my wound,
and all the arts that save have failed their lord.,”

But even as he made his plaint, the Nymph
with timid footsteps fled from his approach,
and left him to his murmurs and his pain.

Lovely the virgin seemed as the soft wind
exposed her limbs, and as the zephyrs fond
fluttered amid her garments, and the breeze
fanned lightly in her flowing hair. She seemed
most lovely to his fancy in her flight;
and mad with love he followed in her steps,
and silent hastened his increasing speed.

As when the greyhound sees the frightened hare
flit over the plain:—With eager nose outstretched,
impetuous, he rushes on his prey,
and gains upon her till he treads her feet,
and almost fastens in her side his fangs;

but she, whilst dreading that her end is near,
is suddenly delivered from her fright;
so was it with the god and virgin: one
with hope pursued, the other fled in fear;
and he who followed, borne on wings of love,
permitted her no rest and gained on her,
until his warm breath mingled in her hair.

Her strength spent, pale and faint, with pleading eyes
she gazed upon her father's waves and prayed,
“Help me my father, if thy flowing streams
have virtue! Cover me, O mother Earth!
Destroy the beauty that has injured me,
or change the body that destroys my life.”

Before her prayer was ended, torpor seized
on all her body, and a thin bark closed
around her gentle bosom, and her hair
became as moving leaves; her arms were changed
to waving branches, and her active feet
as clinging roots were fastened to the ground—
her face was hidden with encircling leaves.—

Phoebus admired and loved the graceful tree,
(For still, though changed, her slender form remained)
and with his right hand lingering on the trunk
he felt her bosom throbbing in the bark.
He clung to trunk and branch as though to twine.
His form with hers, and fondly kissed the wood
that shrank from every kiss.

And thus the God;
“Although thou canst not be my bride, thou shalt
be called my chosen tree, and thy green leaves,
O Laurel! shall forever crown my brows,
be wreathed around my quiver and my lyre;
the Roman heroes shall be crowned with thee,
as long processions climb the Capitol
and chanting throngs proclaim their victories;
and as a faithful warden thou shalt guard
the civic crown of oak leaves fixed between
thy branches, and before Augustan gates.
And as my youthful head is never shorn,
so, also, shalt thou ever bear thy leaves
unchanging to thy glory.,”

Here the God,
Phoebus Apollo, ended his lament,
and unto him the Laurel bent her boughs,
so lately fashioned; and it seemed to him
her graceful nod gave answer to his love.
There is a grove in Thessaly, enclosed
on every side with crags, precipitous,—
on which a forest grows—and this is called
the Vale of Tempe—through this valley flows
the River Peneus, white with foaming waves,
that issue from the foot of Pindus, whence
with sudden fall up gather steamy clouds
that sprinkle mist upon the circling trees,
and far away with mighty roar resound.
It is the abode, the solitary home,
that mighty River loves, where deep in gloom
of rocky cavern, he resides and rules
the flowing waters and the water nymphs
abiding there. All rivers of that land
now hasten thither, doubtful to console
or flatter Daphne's parent: poplar crowned
Sperchios, swift Enipeus and the wild
Amphrysos, old Apidanus and Aeas,
with all their kindred streams that wandering maze
and wearied seek the ocean. Inachus
alone is absent, hidden in his cave
obscure, deepening his waters with his tears—
most wretchedly bewailing, for he deems
his daughter Io lost. If she may live
or roam a spirit in the nether shades
he dares not even guess but dreads

for Jove not long before had seen her while
returning from her father's stream, and said;
“O virgin, worthy of immortal Jove,
although some happy mortal's chosen bride,—
behold these shades of overhanging trees,
and seek their cool recesses while the sun
is glowing in the height of middle skies—”
and as he spoke he pointed out the groves—
“But should the dens of wild beasts frighten you,
with safety you may enter the deep woods,
conducted by a God—not with a God
of small repute, but in the care of him
who holds the heavenly scepter in his hand
and fulminates the trackless thunder bolts.—
forsake me not! ” For while he spoke she fled,
and swiftly left behind the pasture fields
of Lerna, and Lyrcea's arbours, where
the trees are planted thickly. But the God
called forth a heavy shadow which involved
the wide extended earth, and stopped her flight
and ravished in that cloud her chastity.

Meanwhile, the goddess Juno gazing down
on earth's expanse, with wonder saw the clouds
as dark as night enfold those middle fields
while day was bright above. She was convinced
the clouds were none composed of river mist
nor raised from marshy fens. Suspicious now,
from oft detected amours of her spouse,
she glanced around to find her absent lord,
and quite convinced that he was far from heaven,
she thus exclaimed; “This cloud deceives my mind,
or Jove has wronged me.” From the dome of heaven
she glided down and stood upon the earth,
and bade the clouds recede. But Jove had known
the coming of his queen. He had transformed
the lovely Io, so that she appeared
a milk white heifer—formed so beautiful
and fair that envious Juno gazed on her.
She queried: “Whose? what herd? what pasture fields?”
As if she guessed no knowledge of the truth.
And Jupiter, false hearted, said the cow
was earth begotten, for he feared his queen
might make inquiry of the owner's name.
Juno implored the heifer as a gift.—
what then was left the Father of the Gods?
'Twould be a cruel thing to sacrifice
his own beloved to a rival's wrath.
Although refusal must imply his guilt
the shame and love of her almost prevailed;
but if a present of such little worth
were now denied the sharer of his couch,
the partner of his birth, 'twould prove indeed
the earth born heifer other than she seemed—
and so he gave his mistress up to her.

Juno regardful of Jove's cunning art,
lest he might change her to her human form,
gave the unhappy heifer to the charge
of Argus, Aristorides, whose head
was circled with a hundred glowing eyes;
of which but two did slumber in their turn
whilst all the others kept on watch and guard.

Whichever way he stood his gaze was fixed
on Io—even if he turned away
his watchful eyes on Io still remained.
He let her feed by day; but when the sun
was under the deep world he shut her up,
and tied a rope around her tender neck.

She fed upon green leaves and bitter herbs
and on the cold ground slept—too often bare,
she could not rest upon a cushioned couch.
She drank the troubled waters. Hoping aid
she tried to stretch imploring arms to Argus,
but all in vain for now no arms remained;
the sound of bellowing was all she heard,
and she was frightened with her proper voice.

Where former days she loved to roam and sport,
she wandered by the banks of Inachus:
there imaged in the stream she saw her horns
and, startled, turned and fled. And Inachus
and all her sister Naiads knew her not,
although she followed them, they knew her not,
although she suffered them to touch her sides
and praise her.

When the ancient Inachus
gathered sweet herbs and offered them to her,
she licked his hands, kissing her father's palms,
nor could she more restrain her falling tears.
If only words as well as tears would flow,
she might implore his aid and tell her name
and all her sad misfortune; but, instead,
she traced in dust the letters of her name
with cloven hoof; and thus her sad estate
was known.
“Ah wretched me! ” her father cried;
and as he clung around her horns and neck
repeated while she groaned, “Ah wretched me!
Art thou my daughter sought in every clime?
When lost I could not grieve for thee as now
that thou art found; thy sighs instead of words
heave up from thy deep breast, thy longings give
me answer. I prepared the nuptial torch
and bridal chamber, in my ignorance,
since my first hope was for a son in law;
and then I dreamed of children from the match:
but now the herd may furnish thee a mate,
and all thy issue of the herd must be.
Oh that a righteous death would end my grief!—
it is a dreadful thing to be a God!
Behold the lethal gate of death is shut
against me, and my growing grief must last
throughout eternity.”

While thus he moaned
came starry Argus there, and Io bore
from her lamenting father. Thence he led
his charge to other pastures; and removed
from her, upon a lofty mountain sat,
whence he could always watch her, undisturbed.

The sovereign god no longer could endure
to witness Io's woes. He called his son,
whom Maia brightest of the Pleiades
brought forth, and bade him slay the star eyed guard,
argus. He seized his sleep compelling wand
and fastened waving wings on his swift feet,
and deftly fixed his brimmed hat on his head:—
lo, Mercury, the favoured son of Jove,
descending to the earth from heaven's plains,
put off his cap and wings,— though still retained
his wand with which he drove through pathless wilds
some stray she goats, and as a shepherd fared,
piping on oaten reeds melodious tunes.

Argus, delighted with the charming sound
of this new art began; “Whoever thou art,
sit with me on this stone beneath the trees
in cooling shade, whilst browse the tended flock
abundant herbs; for thou canst see the shade
is fit for shepherds.” Wherefore, Mercury
sat down beside the keeper and conversed
of various things—passing the laggard hours.—

then soothly piped he on the joined reeds
to lull those ever watchful eyes asleep;
but Argus strove his languor to subdue,
and though some drowsy eyes might slumber, still
were some that vigil kept. Again he spoke,
(for the pipes were yet a recent art)
“I pray thee tell what chance discovered these.”

To him the God, “ A famous Naiad dwelt
among the Hamadryads, on the cold
Arcadian summit Nonacris, whose name
was Syrinx. Often she escaped the Gods,
that wandered in the groves of sylvan shades,
and often fled from Satyrs that pursued.
Vowing virginity, in all pursuits
she strove to emulate Diana's ways:
and as that graceful goddess wears her robe,
so Syrinx girded hers that one might well
believe Diana there. Even though her bow
were made of horn, Diana's wrought of gold,
vet might she well deceive.
“Now chanced it Pan.
Whose head was girt with prickly pines, espied
the Nymph returning from the Lycian Hill,
and these words uttered he: ”—But Mercury
refrained from further speech, and Pan's appeal
remains untold. If he had told it all,
the tale of Syrinx would have followed thus:—

but she despised the prayers of Pan, and fled
through pathless wilds until she had arrived
the placid Ladon's sandy stream, whose waves
prevented her escape. There she implored
her sister Nymphs to change her form: and Pan,
believing he had caught her, held instead
some marsh reeds for the body of the Nymph;
and while he sighed the moving winds began
to utter plaintive music in the reeds,
so sweet and voice like that poor Pan exclaimed;
“Forever this discovery shall remain
a sweet communion binding thee to me.”—
and this explains why reeds of different length,
when joined together by cementing wax,
derive the name of Syrinx from the maid.

Such words the bright god Mercury would say;
but now perceiving Argus' eyes were dimmed
in languorous doze, he hushed his voice and touched
the drooping eyelids with his magic wand,
compelling slumber. Then without delay
he struck the sleeper with his crescent sword,
where neck and head unite, and hurled his head,
blood dripping, down the rocks and rugged cliff.

Low lies Argus: dark is the light of all
his hundred eyes, his many orbed lights
extinguished in the universal gloom
that night surrounds; but Saturn's daughter spread
their glister on the feathers of her bird,
emblazoning its tail with starry gems.

Juno made haste, inflamed with towering rage,
to vent her wrath on Io; and she raised
in thought and vision of the Grecian girl
a dreadful Fury. Stings invisible,
and pitiless, she planted in her breast,
and drove her wandering throughout the globe.

The utmost limit of her laboured way,
O Nile, thou didst remain. Which, having reached,
and placed her tired knees on that river's edge,
she laid her there, and as she raised her neck
looked upward to the stars, and groaned and wept
and mournfully bellowed: trying thus to plead,
by all the means she had, that Jupiter
might end her miseries. Repentant Jove
embraced his consort, and entreated her
to end the punishment: “Fear not,” he said,
“For she shall trouble thee no more.” He spoke,
and called on bitter Styx to hear his oath.

And now imperial Juno, pacified,
permitted Io to resume her form,—
at once the hair fell from her snowy sides;
the horns absorbed, her dilate orbs decreased;
the opening of her jaws contracted; hands
appeared and shoulders; and each transformed hoof
became five nails. And every mark or form
that gave the semblance of a heifer changed,
except her fair white skin; and the glad Nymph
was raised erect and stood upon her feet.
But long the very thought of speech, that she
might bellow as a heifer, filled her mind
with terror, till the words so long forgot
for some sufficient cause were tried once more.
and since that time, the linen wearing throng
of Egypt have adored her as a God;
for they believe the seed of Jove prevailed;
and when her time was due she bore to him
a son called Epaphus; who also dwells
in temples with his mother in that land.

Now Phaethon, whose father was the Sun,
was equal to his rival, Epaphus,
in mind and years; and he was glad to boast
of wonders, nor would yield to Epaphus
for pride of Phoebus, his reputed sire.
Unable to endure it, Io's son
thus mocked him; “Poor, demented fellow, what
will you not credit if your mother speaks,
you are so puffed up with the fond conceit
of your imagined sire, the Lord of Day.”

shame crimsoned in his cheeks, but Phaethon
withholding rage, reported all the taunts
of Epaphus to Clymene his mother:
“'Twill grieve you, mother, I, the bold and free,
was silent; and it shames me to report
this dark reproach remains unchallenged. Oh,
if I am born of race divine, give proof
of that illustrious descent and claim
my right to Heaven.” Around his mother's neck
he drew his arms, and by the head of Merops,
and by his own, and by the nuptial torch
of his beloved sisters, he implored
for some true token of his origin.

Or moved by Phaethon's importuned words,
or by the grievous charge, who might declare?
She raised her arms to Heaven, and gazing full
upon the broad sun said; “I swear to you
by yonder orb, so radiant and bright,
which both beholds and hears us while we speak,
that you are his begotten son.—You are
the child of that great light which sways the world:
and if I have not spoken what is true,
let not mine eyes behold his countenance,
and let this fatal moment be the last
that I shall look upon the light of day!
Nor will it weary you, my son, to reach
your father's dwelling; for the very place
where he appears at dawn is near our land.
Go, if it please you, and the very truth
learn from your father.” Instantly sprang forth
exultant Phaethon. Overjoyed with words
so welcome, he imagined he could leap
and touch the skies. And so he passed his land
of Ethiopia, and the Indies, hot
beneath the tawny sun, and there he turned
his footsteps to his father's Land of Dawn.

Mentioned templesIūpiterIūnōNeptūnusDiāna

Book II

Glowing with gold, flaming with carbuncles
on stately columns raised, refulgent shone
the palace of the Sun, with polished dome
of ivory gleaming, and with portals twain
of burnished silver. And the workmanship
exceeded all the wealth of gems and gold;
for there had Mulciber engraved the seas
encircling middle earth; the round of earth,
and heaven impending over the land.

And there
amid the waves were azure deities:
melodious Triton and elusive Proteus; there
Aegeaan pressing with his arms the backs.
Of monstrous whales; and Doris in the sea
and all her daughters; some amid the waves
and others sitting on the bank to dry
their sea-green hair, and others borne about
by fishes. Each was made to show a fair
resemblance to her sisters—yet not one
appearance was assigned to all—they seemed
as near alike as sisters should in truth.
And men and cities, woods and savage beasts,
and streams and nymphs, and sylvan deities
were carved upon the land; and over these
an image of the glittering sky was fixed;—
six signs were on the right, six on the left.

Here when audacious Phaethon arrived
by steep ascending paths, without delay
he entered in the shining palace-gates
of his reputed parent, making haste
to stand in his paternal presence. There,
unable to endure the dazzling light,
he waited at a distance.

Phoebus sat,
arrayed in royal purple, on a throne
that glittered with the purest emeralds.—
there to the left and right, Day, Month and Year,
time and the Hours, at equal distance stood;
and vernal Spring stood crowned with wreathed flowers;
and naked Summer stood with sheaves of wheat;
and Autumn stood besmeared with trodden grapes;
and icy Winter rough with hoary hair.

And from the midst, with orbs that view the world,
Phoebus beheld the trembling youth, fear-struck,
in mute amazement, and he said; “Declare
the reason of thy journey. What wilt thou
in this my palace, Phaethon my child
beloved?”

And to him replied the youth;
“O universal light of all the world,
my father Phoebus, if thy name be mine,
if Clymene has not concealed her sin
beneath some pretext, give to me, my sire,
a token to declare thy fatherhood
which may establish my assured descent,
and leave no dark suspicions in our minds.”—

then Phoebus from his shining brows cast down
his circling rays; called Phaethon to him,
and as he held him to his breast replied;
“O child most worthy of thy sire, the truth
was told thee by thy mother; wherefore doubts
to dissipate, consider thy desire,
and ask of me that I may freely give:
yea, let the Nether Lake, beyond our view,
(which is the oath of Gods inviolate)
be witness to my word.”

When this was said
the happy youth at once began to plead
command and guidance of his father's steeds,
wing-footed, and his chariot for a day.

But Phoebus much repented that he sware,
and thrice and four times shook his radiant head;
“Ah, would I might refuse my plighted word;
and oh, that it were lawful to deny
the promised boon.—For I confess, O son,
this only I should keep from thee—and yet
'Tis lawful to dissuade. It is unsafe
to satisfy thy will. It is a great
request, O Phaethon, which neither suits
thy utmost strength nor tender years; for thou
art mortal, and thou hast aspired to things
immortal. Ignorance has made thy thought
transcend the province of the Gods. I vaunt
no vain exploits; but only I can stand
securely on the flame-fraught axle-tree:
even the Ruler of Olympian Gods,
who hurls fierce lightnings with his great right hand,
may never dare to drive this chariot,
and what art thou to equal mighty Jove?
“The opening path is steep and difficult,
for scarcely can the steeds, refreshed at dawn,
climb up the steeps: and when is reached the height,
extreme of midmost Heaven, and sea and earth
are viewed below, my trembling breast is filled
with fearful apprehensions: and requires
the last precipitous descent a sure
command. Then, also, Tethys, who receives
me in her subject waves, is wont to fear
lest I should fall disastrous. And around
the hastening sky revolves in constant whirl,
drawing the lofty stars with rapid twist.
“I struggle on. The force that overcomes
the heavenly bodies overwhelms me not,
and I am borne against that rapid globe.
Suppose the chariot thine: what canst thou do?
Canst thou drive straight against the twisted pole
and not be carried from the lofty path
by the swift car? Art thou deceived to think
there may be groves and cities of the Gods,
and costly temples wondrously endowed?
“The journey is beset with dreadful snares
and shapes of savage animals. If thou
shouldst hold upon thy way without mistake
yet must thy journey be through Taurus' horns,
and through the Bow Haemonian, and the jaws
of the fierce Lion, and the cruel arms
of Scorpion, bent throughout a vast expanse,—
and Cancer's curving arms reversely bent.
“It is no easy task for thee to rule
the mettled four-foot steeds, enflamed in fires
that kindle in their breasts, forth issuing
in breathings from their mouths and nostrils hot;—
I scarce restrain them, as their struggling necks
pull on the harness, when their heated fires
are thus aroused.
“And, O my son, lest I
may be the author of a baneful gift,
beware, and as the time permits recall
thy rash request. Forsooth thou hast besought
undoubted signs of thy descent from me?
My fears for thee are certain signs that thou
art of my race—by my paternal fears
'Tis manifest I am thy father. Lo!
Behold my countenance! and oh, that thou
couldst even pierce my bosom with thine eyes,
and so discover my paternal cares!
“Look round thee on the treasured world's delights
and ask the greatest blessing of the sky,
or sea or land, and thou shalt suffer no
repulse: but only this I must deplore,
which rightly named would be a penalty
and not an honour.—Thou hast made request
of punishment and not a gift indeed.
O witless boy! why dost thou hold my neck
with thy caressing arms? For, doubt it not,
as I have sworn it by the Stygian Waves,
whatever thou shalt wish, it shall be given—
but thou shouldst wish more wisely.”

So were all
his admonitions said, availing naught;
for Phaethon resisted his advice,
and urged again his claim, and eagerly burned
to use the chariot. Wherefore, Phoebus long
delaying and reluctant, took the youth
to view the spacious chariot, gift of Vulcan.—
gold was the axle and the beam was gold,
the great Wheel had a golden tire and spokes
of silver; chrysolites and diamonds
reflected from the spangled yoke the light
of Phoebus.

While aspiring Phaethon admired
the glittering chariot and its workmanship,
the vigilant Aurora opened forth
her purple portals from the ruddy east,
disclosing halls replete with roses. All
the stars took flight, while Lucifer, the last
to quit his vigil, gathered that great host
and disappeared from his celestial watch.

And when his father, Phoebus, saw the earth
and the wide universe in glowing tints
arrayed, as waned the Moon's diminished horns,
far-distant, then he bade the nimble Hours
to yoke the steeds.—At once the Deities
accomplished his commands, and led the steeds,
ambrosia-fed and snorting flames, from out
their spacious stalls; and fixed their sounding bits.

Then with a hallowed drug the father touched
the stripling's face, to make him proof against
the rapid flame, and wrought around his hair
the sun-rays. But, foreboding grief, he said,
while many a sigh heaved from his anxious breast;
“If thou canst only heed thy father's voice—
be sparing of the whip and use with nerve
the reins; for of their own accord the steeds
will hasten. Difficult are they to check
in full career. Thou must not drive the car
directly through five circles, for the track
takes a wide curve, obliquely, and is bound
by the extreme edge of three zones.—It avoids
the Southern Pole, and it avoids the Bear
that roams around the north. The way is plain;
the traces of the Wheel are manifest.
“Observe with care that both the earth and sky
have their appropriate heat—Drive not too low,
nor urge the chariot through the highest plane;
for if thy course attain too great a height
thou wilt consume the mansions of the sky,
and if too low the land will scorch with heat.
“Take thou the middle plane, where all is safe;
nor let the Wheel turn over to the right
and bear thee to the twisted Snake! nor let
it take thee to the Altar on the left—
so close to earth—but steer the middle course.—
to Fortune I commit thy fate, whose care
for thee so reckless of thyself I pray.
“While I am speaking humid night has touched
the margin of Hesperian shores. 'Tis not
for us to idle; we are called away;—
when bright Aurora shines the darkness flies.
Take up the reins! But if thy stubborn breast
be capable of change use not our car,
but heed my counsel while the time permits,
and while thy feet are on a solid base,
but not, according to thy foolish wish,
pressing the axle. Rather let me light
the world beneath thy safe and wondering gaze.”

But Phaethon with youthful vigor leaped,
and in the light-made chariot lightly stood:
and he rejoiced, and with the reins in hand
thanked his reluctant parent.

Instantly
Eous, Aethon, Pyrois and Phlegon,
the winged horses of the Sun, gave vent
to flame-like neighs that filled the shaking air;
they pawed the barriers with their shining hoofs.
Then Tethys, witless of her grandson's fate
let back the barriers,—and the universe
was theirs to traverse. Taking the well-known road,
and moving through the air with winged feet,
they pierced resisting clouds, and spreading wide
their pinions soared upon the eastern wind,
far-wafted from that realm. But Phaethon,
so easy of their yoke, lost all control,
and the great car was tossed,—as tapered ships
when lightened of their ballast toss and heave
unsteady in the surging seas: the car
leaped lightly in the air, and in the heights
was tossed unsteady as an empty shell.

Soon as the steeds perceived it, with a rush
impetuous, they left the beaten track;
regardless of all order and control;
and Phaethon filled with fear, knew not to guide
with trusted reins, nor where the way might be—
nor, if he knew, could he control their flight.

Warmed in the sunshine, never felt before,
the gelid Triones attempted vain
to bathe in seas forbid: the Serpent cold
and torpid by the frozen Pole, too cold
for contest, warmed, and rage assumed from heat
bootes, troubled by the heat, took flight,
impeded by his wain.

And as from skies
of utmost height unhappy Phaethon
beheld the earth receding from his view,
a pallor spread his cheeks with sudden fear;
his knees began to quake; and through the flare
of vast effulgence darkness closed his eyes.
Now vainy he regrets he ever touched
his father's steeds, and he is stunned with grief
that so entreating he prevailed to know
his true descent. He rather would be called
the son of Merops. As a ship is tossed
by raging Boreas, when the conquered helm
has been abandoned, and the pilot leaves
the vessel to his vows and to the Gods;
so, helpless, he is borne along the sky.

What can he? Much of heaven remains behind;
a longer distance is in front of him—
each way is measured in his anxious mind.—
at first his gaze is fixed upon the west,
which fate has destined he shall never reach,
and then his eyes turn backward to the east.—
so, stupefied and dazed he neither dares
to loose the bits, nor tighten on the reins,
and he is ignorant of the horses' names.

He sees horrific wonders scattered round,
and images of hideous animals.—
and there's a spot where Scorpion bends his claws
in double circles, and with tail and arms
on either side, stretches his limbs throughout
the space of two Celestial Signs; and when
the lad beheld him, steeped in oozing slime
of venom, swart, and threatening to strike
grim wounds with jagged spear-points, he was lost;
and, fixed in chills of horror, dropped the reins.

When these they felt upon their rising backs,
the startled steeds sprang forthwith; and, unchecked,
through atmospheres of regions unexplored,
thence goaded by their unchecked violence,
broke through the lawful bounds, and rushed upon
the high fixed stars. They dragged the chariot
through devious ways, and soared amid the heights;
dashed down deep pathways, far, precipitous,
and gained a level near the scorching earth.

Phoebe is wondering that her brother's steeds
run lower than her own, and sees the smoke
of scorching clouds. The highest altitudes
are caught in flames, and as their moistures dry
they crack in chasms. The grass is blighted; trees
are burnt up with their leaves; the ripe brown crops
give fuel for self destruction—Oh what small
complaints! Great cities perish with their walls,
and peopled nations are consumed to dust—
the forests and the mountains are destroyed.

Cilician Taurus, Athos and Tmolus,
and Oeta are burning; and the far-famed Ida
and all her cooling rills are dry and burning,
and virgin Helicon, and Hoemos—later
Oeagrius called—and Aetna with tremendous,
redoubled flames, and double-peaked Parnassus,
Sicilian Eryx, Cynthus—Othrys, pine-clad,
and Rhodope, deprived his snowy mantle,
and Dindyma and Mycale and Mimas,
and Mount Cithaeron, famed for sacred rites:
and Scythia, though a land of frost, is burning,
and Caucasus,—and Ossa burns with Pindus,—
and greater than those two Olympus burns—
the lofty Alps, the cloud-topped Apennines.

And Phaethon, as he inhaled the air,
burning and scorching as a furnace blast,
and saw destruction on the flaming world,
and his great chariot wreathed in quenchless fires,
was suddenly unable to endure the heat,
the smoke and cinders, and he swooned away.—
if he had known the way, those winged steeds
would rush as wild unguided.—

then the skin
of Ethiopians took a swarthy hue,
the hot blood tingling to the surface: then
the heat dried up the land of Libya;
dishevelled, the lorn Nymphs, lamenting, sought
for all their emptied springs and lakes in vain;
Boeotia wailed for Dirce's cooling wave,
and Argos wailed for Amymone's stream—
and even Corinth for the clear Pyrene.

Not safer from the flames were distant streams;—
the Tanais in middle stream was steaming
and old Peneus and Teuthrantian Caicus,
Ismenus, rapid and Arcadian Erymanthus;
and even Xanthus destined for a second burning,
and tawny-waved Lycormas, and Meander,
turning and twisting, and Thracian Melas burns,
and the Laconian Eurotas burns,
the mighty Babylonian Euphrates,
Orontes and the Ganges, swift Thermodon,
Ister and Phasis and Alpheus boil.
The banks of Spercheus burn, the gold of Tagus
is melting in the flames. The swans whose songs

enhanced the beauties of Maeonian banks
are scalded in the Cayster's middle wave.
The Nile affrighted fled to parts remote,
and hid his head forever from the world:
now empty are his seven mouths, and dry
without or wave or stream; and also dry
Ismenian Hebrus, Strymon and the streams
of Hesper-Land, the rivers Rhine and Rhone,
and Po, and Tiber, ruler of the world.

And even as the ground asunder burst,
the light amazed in gloomy Tartarus
the King Infernal and his Spouse. The sea
contracted and his level waste became
a sandy desert. The huge mountain tops,
once covered by the ocean's waves, reared up,
by which the scattered Cyclades increased.
Even the fishes sought for deeper pools;—
the crooked dolphins dared not skip the waves;
the lifeless sea-calves floated on the top;
and it is even famed that Nereus hid
with Doris and her daughters, deep below
in seething caverns. With a dauntless mien
thrice Neptune tried to thrust his arms above
the waters;—thrice the heated air overcame
his courage.

Then the genial Earth, although
surrounded by the waters of the sea,
was parched and dry; for all her streams had hid
deep in the darkness of her winding caves.—
she lifted her productive countenance,
up to her rounded neck, and held her palms
on her sad brows; and as the mountains huge
trembled and tottered, beneath her wonted plane
declined she for a space—and thus began,
with parched voice;
“If this is thy decree,
O, Highest of the Gods,—if I have sinned
why do thy lightnings linger? For if doomed
by fires consuming I to perish must,
let me now die in thy celestial flames—
hurled by thine arm—and thus alleviate,
by thine omnipotence, this agony.
“How difficult to open my parched mouth,
and speak these words! (the vapours choking her),
behold my scorching hair, and see the clouds
of ashes falling on my blinded eyes,
and on my features! What a recompense
for my fertility! How often I
have suffered from the wounds of crooked plows
and rending harrows—tortured year by year!
For this I give to cattle juicy leaves
and fruits to man and frankincense to thee!
“Suppose destruction is my just award
what have the waters and thy brother done?
Why should thy brother's cooling waves decrease
and thus recede so distant from the skies?
If not thy brother's good nor mine may touch
thy mercy, let the pity of thy Heaven,
for lo, the smoking poles on either side
attest, if flames consume them or destroy,
the ruin of thy palace. Atlas, huge,
with restive shoulders hardly can support
the burning heavens. If the seas and lands
together perish and thy palace fall,
the universe confused will plunge once more
to ancient Chaos. Save it from this wreck—
if anything survive the fury of the flames.”

So made the tortured Earth an end of speech;
and she was fain to hide her countenance
in caves that border on the nether night.

But now the Almighty Father, having called
to witness all the Gods of Heaven, and him
who gave the car, that, else his power be shown,
must perish all in dire confusion, high
he mounted to the altitude from which
he spreads the mantling clouds, and fulminates
his dreadful thunders and swift lightning-bolts
terrific.—Clouds were none to find on the earth,
and the surrounding skies were void of rain.—

Jove, having reached that summit, stood and poised
in his almighty hand a flashing dart,
and, hurling it, deprived of life and seat
the youthful charioteer, and struck with fire
the raging flames— and by the same great force
those flames enveloping the earth were quenched,
and he who caused their fury lost his life.

Frantic in their affright the horses sprang
across the bounded way and cast their yokes,
and through the tangled harness lightly leaped.
And here the scattered harness lay, and there
the shattered axle, wrenched from off the pole,
and various portions of the broken car;
spokes of the broken Wheel were scattered round.

And far fell Phaethon with flaming hair;
as haply from the summer sky appears
a falling star, although it never drops
to startled earth.—Far distant from his home
the deep Eridanus received the lad
and bathed his foaming face. His body charred
by triple flames Hesperian Naiads bore,
still smoking, to a tomb, and this engraved
upon the stone; “Here Phaethon's remains
lie buried. He who drove his father's car
and fell, although he made a great attempt.”

Filled with consuming woe, his father hid
his countenance which grief had overcast.
And now, surpassing our belief, they say
a day passed over with no glowing sun;—
but light-affording flames appeared to change
disaster to the cause of good.

Amazed,
the woeful Clymene, when she had moaned
in grief, amid her lamentations tore
her bosom, as across the world she roamed,
at first to seek his lifeless corpse, and then
his bones. She wandered to that distant land
and found at last his bones ensepulchred.
There, clinging to the grave she fell and bathed
with many tears his name on marble carved,
and with her bosom warmed the freezing
stone.

And all the daughters of the Sun went there
giving their tears, alas a useless gift;—
they wept and beat their breasts, and day and night
called, “Phaethon,” who heard not any sound
of their complaint:—and there they lay foredone,
all scattered round the tomb.

The silent moon
had four times joined her horns and filled her disk,
while they, according to an ancient rite,
made lamentation. Prone upon the ground,
the eldest, Phaethusa, would arise
from there, but found her feet were growing stiff;
and uttered moan. Lampetia wished to aid
her sister but was hindered by new roots;
a third when she would tear her hair, plucked forth
but leaves: another wailed to find her legs
were fastened in a tree; another moaned
to find her arms to branches had been changed.
And while they wondered, bark enclosed their thighs,
and covered their smooth bellies, and their breasts,
and shoulders and their hands, but left untouched
their lips that called upon their mother's name.
What can she do for them? Hither she runs
and thither runs, wherever frenzy leads.
She kisses them, alas, while yet she may!

But not content with this, she tried to hale
their bodies from the trees; and she would tear
the tender branches with her hands, but lo!
The blood oozed out as from a bleeding wound;
and as she wounded them they shrieked aloud,
“Spare me! O mother spare me; in the tree
my flesh is torn! farewell! farewell! farewell!”
And as they spoke the bark enclosed their lips.

Their tears flow forth, and from the new-formed
boughs
amber distils and slowly hardens in the sun;
and far from there upon the waves is borne
to deck the Latin women.

Cycnus, son
of Sthenelus, by his maternal house
akin to Phaethon, and thrice by love
allied, beheld this wonderful event.—
he left his kingdom of Liguria,
and all its peopled cities, to lament
where the sad sisters had increased the woods,
beside the green banks of Eridanus.

There, as he made complaint, his manly voice
began to pipe a treble, shrill; and long
gray plumes concealed his hair. A slender neck
extended from his breast, and reddening toes
were joined together by a membrane. Wings
grew from his sides, and from his mouth was made
a blunted beak. Now Cycnus is a swan,
and yet he fears to trust the skies and Jove,
for he remembers fires, unjustly sent,
and therefore shuns the heat that he abhors,
and haunts the spacious lakes and pools and streams
that quench the fires.

In squalid garb, meanwhile,
and destitute of all his rays, the sire
of Phaethon, as dark as when eclipse bedims
his Wheel, abhors himself and hates the light,
shuns the bright day, gives up his mind to grief,
adds passion to his woe, denies the earth
his countenance, and thus laments; “My lot
was ever restless from the dawn of time,
and I am weary of this labour, void
and endless. Therefore, let who will urge forth
my car, light-bearing, and if none may dare,
when all the Gods of Heaven acknowledge it,
let Jove himself essay the task. Perchance,
when he takes up the reins, he may forget
his dreadful lightning that bereaves of child
a father's love; and as he tries the strength
of those flame-footed steeds will know, in truth,
the lad who failed to guide my chariot
deserved not death.”

But all the Deities
encircle Phoebus as he makes complaint,
and with their supplications they entreat
him not to plunge the world in darkness. Jove
would find excuses for the lightning-bolt,
hurled from his hand, and adds imperious threats
to his entreaties. Phoebus calls his steeds,
frenzied with their maddening fires, and
breaks
their fury, as he vents with stinging lash
his rage upon them, and in passion lays
on them the death of Phaethon his son.
Now after Phaethon had suffered death
for the vast ruin wrought by scorching flames,
all the great walls of Heaven's circumference,
unmeasured, views the Father of the Gods,
with searching care, that none impaired by heat
may fall in ruins. Well assured they stand
in self-sustaining strength, his view, at last,
on all the mundane works of man is turned;—
his loving gaze long resting on his own
Arcadia. And he starts the streams and springs
that long have feared to flow; paints the wide earth
with verdant fields; covers the trees with leaves,
and clothes the injured forests in their green.

While wandering in the world, he stopped amazed,
when he beheld the lovely Nymph, Calisto,
and fires of love were kindled in his breast.

Calisto was not clothed in sumptuous robes,
nor did she deck her hair in artful coils;
but with a buckle she would gird her robe,
and bind her long hair with a fillet white.
She bore a slender javelin in her hand,
or held the curving bow; and thus in arms
as chaste Diana, none of Maenalus
was loved by that fair goddess more than she.

But everything must change. When bright the sun
rolled down the sky, beyond his middle course,
she pierced a secret thicket, known to her,
and having slipped the quiver from her arm,
she loosed the bended bow, and softly down
upon the velvet turf reclining, pressed
her white neck on the quiver while she slept.

When Jupiter beheld her, negligent
and beautiful, he argued thus, “How can
my consort, Juno, learn of this? And yet,
if chance should give her knowledge, what care I?
Let gain offset the scolding of her tongue!”

This said, the god transformed himself and took
Diana's form—assumed Diana's dress
and imitating her awoke the maid,
and spoke in gentle tones, “What mountain slope,
O virgin of my train, hath been thy chase?”
Which, having heard, Calisto, rose and said,
“Hail, goddess! greater than celestial Jove!
I would declare it though he heard the words.”

Jove heard and smiled, well pleased to be preferred
above himself, and kissed her many times,
and strained her in his arms, while she began
to tell the varied fortunes of her hunt.—
but when his ardent love was known to her,
she struggled to escape from his embrace:
ah, how could she, a tender maid, resist
almighty Jove?—Be sure, Saturnia
if thou hadst only witnessed her thy heart
had shown more pity!—

Jupiter on wings,
transcendent, sought his glorious heights;
but she, in haste departing from that grove,
almost forgot her quiver and her bow.

Behold, Diana, with her virgin train,
when hunting on the slopes of Maenalus,
amidst the pleasures of exciting sport,
espied the Nymph and called her, who, afraid
that Jove apparelled in disguise deceived,
drew backward for a moment, till appeared
to her the lovely Nymphs that followed: thus,
assured deceit was none, she ventured near.

Alas, how difficult to hide disgrace!
She could not raise her vision from the ground,
nor as the leader of the hunting Nymphs,
as was her wont, walk by the goddess' side.
Her silence and her blushes were the signs
of injured honour. Ah Diana, thou,
if thou wert not a virgin, wouldst perceive
and pity her unfortunate distress.

The Moon's bent horns were rising from their ninth
sojourn, when, fainting from Apollo's flames,
the goddess of the Chase observed a cool
umbrageous grove, from which a murmuring stream
ran babbling gently over golden sands.
When she approved the spot, lightly she struck
her foot against the ripples of the stream,
and praising it began; “Far from the gaze
of all the curious we may bathe our limbs,
and sport in this clear water.” Quickly they
undid their garments,—but Calisto hid
behind the others, till they knew her state.—
Diana in a rage exclaimed, “Away!
Thou must not desecrate our sacred springs!”
And she was driven thence.

Ere this transpired,
observed the consort of the Thunder-God
her altered mien; but she for ripening time
withheld severe resentment. Now delay
was needless for distracted Juno heard
Calisto of the god of Heaven had borne
a boy called Arcas. Full of jealous rage,
her eyes and thoughts enkindled as she cried;
“And only this was wanting to complete
your wickedness, that you should bear a son
and flaunt abroad the infamy of Jove!
Unpunished you shall not escape, for I
will spoil the beauty that has made you proud
and dazzled Jupiter with wanton art.”

So saying, by her forehead's tresses seized
the goddess on her rival; and she dragged
her roughly to the ground. Pleading she raised
her suppliant arms and begged for mercy.—While
she pled, black hair spread over her white limbs;
her hands were lengthened into feet, and claws
long-curving tipped them; snarling jaws deformed
the mouth that Jove had kissed. And lest her prayers
and piteous words might move some listening God,
and give remembrance, speech was so denied,
that only from her throat came angry growls,
now uttered hoarse and threatening.

Still remains
her understanding, though her body, thus
transformed, makes her appear a savage bear.—
her sorrows are expressed in many a groan,
repeated as she lifts her hands—if we
may call them so—repeated as she lifts
them towards the stars and skies, ungrateful Jove
regarding; but her voice accuses not.

Afraid to rest in unfrequented woods,
she wandered in the fields that once were hers,
around her well-known dwelling. Over crags,
in terror, she was driven by the cries
of hounds; and many a time she fled in fear,
a huntress from the hunters, or she hid
from savage animals; forgetting her
transformed condition. Changed into a bear,
she fled affrighted from the bears that haunt
the rugged mountains; and she feared and fled
the wolves,—although her father was a wolf.

When thrice five birthdays rounded out the youth
of Arcas, offspring of Lycaon's child,
he hunted in the forest of his choice;
where, hanging with his platted nets the trees
of Erymanthian forest, he espied
his transformed mother,—but he knew her not;
no one had told him of his parentage.

Knowing her child, she stood with levelled gaze,
amazed and mute as he began approach;
but Arcas, frightened at the sight drew back
to pierce his mother's breast with wounding spear.—
but not permitting it the god of Heaven
averted, and removed them from that crime.
He, in a mighty wind—through vacant space,
upbore them to the dome of starry heaven,
and fixed them, Constellations, bright amid
the starry host.

Juno on high beheld
Calisto crowned with glory—great with rage
her bosom heaved. She flew across the sea,
to hoary Tethys and to old Oceanus,
whom all the Gods revere, and thus to them
in answer to their words she made address;
“And is it wondered that the Queen of Gods
comes hither from ethereal abodes?
My rival sits upon the Throne of Heaven:
yea, when the wing of Night has darkened
let my fair word be deemed of no repute,
if you behold not in the height of Heaven
those new made stars, now honoured to my shame,
conspicuous; fixed in the highest dome of space
that circles the utmost axis of the world.
“Who, then, should hesitate to put affront
on Juno? matchless goddess! each offense
redounds in benefit! Who dreads her rage?
Oh boundless powers! Oh unimagined deeds!
My enemy assumes a goddess' form
when my decree deprives her human shape;—
and thus the guilty rue their chastisement!
“Now let high Jove to human shape transform
this hideous beast, as once before he changed
his Io from a heifer.—Let him now
divorce his Juno and consort with her,
and lead Calisto to his couch, and take
that wolf, Lycaon, for a father-in-law!
“Oh, if an injury to me, your child,
may move your pity! drive the Seven Stars
from waters crystalline and azure-tint,
and your domain debar from those that shine
in Heaven, rewarded for Jove's wickedness.—
bathe not a concubine in waters pure.”—
the Gods of Ocean granted her request.
High in her graceful chariot through the air,
translucent, wends the goddess, glorious child
of Saturn, with her peacocks many-hued:
her peacocks, by the death of Argus limned,
so gay were made when black as midnight turned
thy wings, O chattering raven! white of yore.
For, long ago the ravens were not black—
their plumage then was white as any dove—
white-feathered, snow-white as the geese that guard
with watchful cries the Capitol: as white
as swans that haunt the streams. Disgrace reversed
the raven's hue from white to black, because
offense was given by his chattering tongue.

O glorious Phoebus! dutiful to thee,
Coronis of Larissa, fairest maid
of all Aemonia, was a grateful charm,
a joy to thee whilst faithful to thy love,—
while none defamed her chastity. But when
the Raven, bird of Phoebus, learned the Nymph
had been unfaithful, mischief-bent that bird,
spreading his white wings, hastened to impart
the sad news to his master. After him
the prattling Crow followed with flapping wings,
eager to learn what caused the Raven's haste.

Concealing nothing, with his busy tongue
the Raven gave the scandal to that bird:
and unto him the prattling Crow replied;
“A fruitless errand has befooled thy wits!
Take timely warning of my fateful cries:
consider what I was and what I am:
was justice done? 'Twas my fidelity
that caused my downfall. For, it came to pass,
within a basket, fashioned of small twigs,
Minerva had enclosed that spawn; begot
without a mother, Ericthonius;
which to the wardship of three virgins, born
of double-natured Cecrops, she consigned
with this injunction, ‘Look ye not therein,
nor learn the secret.’—
“But I saw their deeds
while hidden in the leaves of a great tree
two of the sisters, Herse and Pandrosos,
observed the charge, but scoffing at their fears,
the third, Aglauros, with her nimble hands
untied the knotted cords, and there disclosed
a serpent and an infant. This I told
Minerva; but in turn, she took away
her long protection, and degraded me
beneath the boding Owl.—My punishment
should warn the birds how many dangers they
incur from chattering tongues.
“Not my desire
impelled me to report to her, nor did
I crave protection; which, if thou wilt ask
Minerva, though enraged she must confirm.
And when is told to thee what lately fame
established, thou wilt not despise the Crow.
“Begot by Coronaeus, who was lord
of all the land of Phocis, I was once
a royal virgin, sought by suitors rich
and powerful. But beauty proved the cause
of my misfortune; for it came to pass,
as I was slowly walking on the sands
that skirt the merge of ocean, where was oft
my wont to roam, the god of Ocean gazed
impassioned, and with honied words implored
my love—but finding that I paid no heed,
and all his words despised, he fumed with rage
and followed me.
“I fled from that sea-shore,
to fields of shifting sands that all my steps
delayed: and in despair upon the Gods
and all mankind I called for aid, but I
was quite alone and helpless. Presently
the chaste Minerva, me, a virgin, heard
and me assistance gave: for as my arms
implored the Heavens, downy feathers grew
from out the flesh; and as I tried to cast
my mantle from my shoulders, wings appeared
upon my tender sides; and as I strove
to beat my naked bosom with my hands,
nor hands remained nor naked breast to beat.
“I ran, and as I sped the sands no more
delayed me; I was soaring from the ground;
and as I winged the air, Minerva chose
me for a life-companion; but alas,
although my life was blameless, fate or chance
deprived me of Minerva's loving aid;
for soon Nictimene succeeded me
to her protection and deserved esteem.—
it happened in this way,—Nictimene
committed the most wicked crimes, for which
Minerva changed her to the bird of night—
and ever since has claimed her as her own
instead of me; and this despite the deed
for which she shuns the glorious light of day,
and conscious of her crime conceals her shame
in the dark night—Minerva's Owl now called.
All the glad birds of day, indignant shun,
and chase her from the skies.”

But now replied
the Raven to the Crow, that talked so much,
“A mischief fall upon your prating head
for this detention of my flight. Your words
and warnings I despise.” With which retort
he winged upon his journey, swiftly thence
in haste, despite the warning to inform
his patron, Phoebus, how he saw the fair
Coronis with a lad of Thessaly.

And when Apollo, Phoebus, heard the tale
the busy Raven made such haste to tell,
he dropped his plectrum and his laurel wreath,
and his bright countenance went white with rage.
He seized his trusted arms, and having bent
his certain bow, pierced with a deadly shaft
that bosom which so often he had pressed
against his own.

Coronis moaned in pain,—
and as she drew the keen shaft from the wound,
her snow-white limbs were bathed in purple blood:
and thus she wailed, “Ah, Phoebus! punishment
is justly mine! but wherefore didst thou not
await the hour of birth? for by my death
an innocent is slain.” This said, her soul
expired with her life-blood, and death congealed
her drooping form.

Sadly the love-lore God
repents his jealous deed; regrets too late
his ready credence to the Raven's tale.
Mourning his thoughtless deed, blaming himself,
he vents his rage upon the talking bird;
he hates his bow, the string, his own right hand,
the fateful arrow. As a last resource,
and thus to overcome her destiny,
he strove to cherish her beloved form;
for vain were all his medicinal arts.

But when he saw upraised the funeral pyre,
where wreathed in flames her body should be burnt,
the sorrow of his heart welled forth in sighs;
but tearless orbed, for no celestial face
may tide of woe bedew. So grieves the poor dam,
when, swinging from his right the flashing ax,
the butcher with a sounding blow divides
the hollow temples of her sucking calf.

Yet, after Phoebus poured the fragrant myrrh,
sweet perfumes on her breast, that now once more
against his own he pressed, and after all
the prematurely hastened rites were done,
he would not suffer the offspring of his loins
to mingle with her ashes, but he plucked
from out the flames, forth from the mother's thighs
his child, unborn, and carried to the cave
of double-natured Chiron.

Then to him
he called the silly raven, high in hopes
of large requital due for all his words;
but, angry with his meddling ways, the God
turned the white feathers of that bird to black
and then forbade forever more to perch
among the favoured birds whose plumes are white.
Chiron, the Centaur, taught his pupil; proud
that he was honoured by that God-like charge.
Behold, his lovely daughter, who was born
beside the margin of a rapid stream,
came forward, with her yellow hair as gold
adown her shoulders.—She was known by name
Ocyroe. The hidden things that Fate
conceals, she had the power to tell; for not
content was she to learn her father's arts,
but rather pondered on mysterious things.

So, when the god of Frenzy warmed her breast,
gazing on Aesculapius,—the child
of Phoebus and Coronis, while her soul
was gifted, with prophetic voice she said;
“O thou who wilt bestow on all the world
the blessed boon of health, increase in strength!
To thee shall mortals often owe their lives:
to thee is given the power to raise the dead.
But when against the power of Deities
thou shalt presume to dare thy mortal skill,
the bolts of Jove will shatter thy great might,
and health no more be thine from thence to grant.
And from a god thou shalt return to dust,
and once again from dust become a God;
and thou shalt thus renew thy destiny.—
“And thou, dear father Chiron, brought to birth
with pledge of an immortal life, informed
with ever-during strength, when biting flames
of torment from the baneful serpent's blood
are coursing in thy veins, thou shalt implore
a welcome death; and thy immortal life
the Gods shall suffer to the power of death.—
and the three Destinies shall cut thy thread.”

She would continue these prophetic words
but tears unbidden trickled down her face;
and, as it seemed her sighs would break her heart,
she thus bewailed; “The Fates constrain my speech
and I can say no more; my power has gone.
Alas, my art, although of little force
and doubtful worth, has brought upon my head
the wrath of Heaven.
“Oh wherefore did I know
to cast the future? Now my human form
puts on another shape, and the long grass
affords me needed nourishment. I want
to range the boundless plains and have become,
in image of my father's kind, a mare:
but gaining this, why lose my human shape?
My father's form is one of twain combined.”

And as she wailed the words became confused
and scarcely understood; and soon her speech
was only as the whinny of a mare.
Down to the meadow's green her arms were stretched;
her fingers joined together, and smooth hoofs

made of five nails a single piece of horn.
Her face and neck were lengthened, and her hair
swept downward as a tail; the scattered locks
that clung around her neck were made a mane,
tossed over to the right. Her voice and shape
were altogether changed, and since that day
the change has given her a different name.
In vain her hero father, Chiron, prayed
the glorious God, Apollo, her to aid.
He could not thwart the will of mighty Jove;
and if the power were his, far from the spot,
from thence afar his footsteps trod the fields
of Elis and Messenia, far from thence.
Now while Apollo wandered on those plains,—
his shoulders covered with a shepherd's skin,
his left hand holding his long shepherd's staff,
his right hand busied with the seven reeds
of seven sizes, brooding over the death
of Hymenaeus, lost from his delight;
while mournful ditties on the reeds were tuned,—
his kine, forgotten, strayed away to graze
over the plains of Pylos. Mercury
observed them, unattended, and from thence
drove them away and hid them in the forest.

So deftly did he steal them, no one knew
or noticed save an ancient forester,
well known to all the neighbor-folk, by them
called Battus. He was keeper of that wood,
and that green pasture where the blooded mares
of rich Neleus grazed.

As Mercury
distrusted him, he led him to one side
and said; “Good stranger, whosoever thou art,
if any one should haply question thee,
if thou hast seen these kine, deny it all;
and for thy good will, ere the deed is done,
I give as thy reward this handsome cow.”

Now when the gift was his, old Battus said,
“Go hence in safety, if it be thy will;
and should my tongue betray thee, let that stone
make mention of the theft.” And as he spoke,
he pointed to a stone.

The son of Jove
pretended to depart, but quickly changed
his voice and features, and retraced his steps,
and thus again addressed that ancient man;
“Kind sir, if thou wouldst earn a fair reward,
a heifer and a bull, if thou hast seen
some cattle pass, I pray thee give thy help,
and tell me of the theft.” So the reward
was doubled; and the old man answered him,
“Beyond those hills they be,” and so they were
‘Beyond those hills.’

And, laughing, Mercury said,
“Thou treacherous man to me dost thou betray
myself? Dost thou bewray me to myself?”
The god indignant turned his perjured breast
into a stone which even now is called
“The Spy of Pylos,” a disgraceful name,
derived from days of old, but undeserved.
High in the dome of Heaven, behold the bright
Caduceus-Bearer soared on balanced wings;
and far below him through a fruitful grove,
devoted to Minerva's hallowed reign,
some virgins bearing on their lovely heads,
in wicker baskets wreathed and decked with flowers,
their sacred offerings to the citadel
of that chaste goddess. And the winged God,
while circling in the clear unbounded skies,
beheld that train of virgins, beautiful,
as they were thence returning on their way.

Not forward on a level line he flew,
but wheeled in circles round. Lo, the swift kite
swoops round the smoking entrails, while the priests
enclose in guarded ranks their sacrifice:
wary with fear, that swiftest of all birds,
dares not to venture from his vantage height,
but greedily hovers on his waving wings
around his keen desire. So, the bright God
circled those towers, Actaean, round and round,
in mazey circles, greedy as the bird.

As much as Lucifer outshines the stars
that emulate the glory of his rays,
as greatly as bright Phoebe pales thy light,
O lustrous Lucifer! so far surpassed
in beauty the fair maiden Herse, all
those lovely virgins of that sacred train,
departing joyous from Minerva's grove.

The Son of Jove, astonished, while he wheeled
on balanced pinions through the yielding air,
burned hot; as oft from Balearic sling
the leaden missile, hurled with sudden force,
burns in a glowing heat beneath the clouds.

Then sloped the god his course from airy height,
and turned a different way; another way
he went without disguise, in confidence
of his celestial grace. But though he knew
his face was beautiful, he combed his hair,
and fixed his flowing raiment, that the fringe
of radiant gold appeared. And in his hand
he waved his long smooth wand, with which he gives
the wakeful sleep or waketh ridded eyes.
He proudly glanced upon his twinkling feet
that sparkled with their scintillating wings.

In a secluded part of that great fane,
devoted to Minerva's hallowed rites,
three chambers were adorned with tortoise shell
and ivory and precious woods inlaid;
and there, devoted to Minerva's praise,
three well known sisters dwelt. Upon the right
dwelt Pandrosos and over on the left
Aglauros dwelt, and Herse occupied
the room between those two.

When Mercury
drew near to them, Aglauros first espied
the God, and ventured to enquire his name,
and wherefore he was come. Then gracious spoke
to her in answer the bright son of Jove;
“Behold the god who carries through the air
the mandates of almighty Jupiter!
But I come hither not to waste my time
in idle words, but rather to beseech
thy kindness and good aid, that I may win
the love of thy devoted sister Herse.”

Aglauros, on the son of Jupiter,
gazed with those eyes that only lately viewed
the guarded secret of the yellow-haired
Minerva, and demanded as her price
gold of great weight; before he paid denied
admittance of the house.

Minerva turned,
with orbs of stern displeasure, towards the maid
Aglauros; and her bosom heaved with sighs
so deeply laboured that her Aegis-shield
was shaken on her valiant breast. For she
remembered when Aglauros gave to view
her charge, with impious hand, that monster form
without a mother, maugre Nature's law,
what time the god who dwells on Lemnos loved.—

now to requite the god and sister; her
to punish whose demand of gold was great;
Minerva to the Cave of Envy sped.
Dark, hideous with black gore, her dread abode
is hidden in the deepest hollowed cave,
in utmost limits where the genial sun
may never shine, and where the breathing winds
may never venture; dismal, bitter cold,
untempered by the warmth of welcome fires,
involved forever in abounding gloom.

When the fair champion came to this abode
she stood before its entrance, for she deemed
it not a lawful thing to enter there:
and she whose arm is mortal to her foes,
struck the black door-posts with her pointed spear,
and shook them to the center. Straight the doors
flew open, and, behold, within was Envy
ravening the flesh of vipers, self-begot,
the nutriment of her depraved desires.—

when the great goddess met her evil gaze
she turned her eyes away. But Envy slow,
in sluggish languor from the ground uprose,
and left the scattered serpents half-devoured;
then moving with a sullen pace approached.—
and when she saw the gracious goddess, girt
with beauty and resplendent in her arms,
she groaned aloud and fetched up heavy sighs.

Her face is pale, her body long and lean,
her shifting eyes glance to the left and right,
her snaggle teeth are covered with black rust,
her hanging paps overflow with bitter gall,
her slavered tongue drips venom to the ground;
busy in schemes and watchful in dark snares
sweet sleep is banished from her blood-shot eyes;
her smiles are only seen when others weep;
with sorrow she observes the fortunate,
and pines away as she beholds their joy;
her own existence is her punishment,
and while tormenting she torments herself.

Although Minerva held her in deep scorn
she thus commanded her with winged words;
“Instil thy poison in Aglauros, child
of Cecrops; I command thee; do my will.”

She spake; and spurning with her spear the ground
departed; and the sad and furtive-eyed
envy observed her in her glorious flight:
she murmured at the goddess, great in arms:
but waiting not she took in hand her staff,
which bands of thorns encircled as a wreath,
and veiled in midnight clouds departed thence.
She blasted on her way the ripening fields;
scorched the green meadows, starred with flowers,
and breathed a pestilence throughout the land
and the great cities. When her eyes beheld
the glorious citadel of Athens, great
in art and wealth, abode of joyful peace,
she hardly could refrain from shedding tears,
that nothing might be witnessed worthy tears.

She sought the chamber where Aglauros slept,
and hastened to obey the God's behest.
She touched the maiden's bosom with her hands,
foul with corrupting stains, and pierced her heart
with jagged thorns, and breathed upon her face
a noxious venom; and distilled through all
the marrow of her bones, and in her lungs,
a poison blacker than the ooze of pitch.

And lest the canker of her poisoned soul
might spread unchecked throughout increasing space,
she caused a vision of her sister's form
to rise before her, happy with the God
who shone in his celestial beauty. All
appeared more beautiful than real life.—

when the most wretched daughter of Cecrops
had seen the vision secret torment seized
on all her vitals; and she groaned aloud,
tormented by her frenzy day and night.

A slow consumption wasted her away,
as ice is melted by the slant sunbeam,
when the cool clouds are flitting in the sky.
If she but thought of Herse's happiness
she burned, as thorny bushes are consumed
with smoldering embers under steaming stems.
She could not bear to see her sister's joy,
and longed for death, an end of misery;
or schemed to end the torture of her mind
by telling all she knew in shameful words,
whispered to her austere and upright sire.

But after many agonizing hours,
she sat before the threshold of their home
to intercept the God, who as he neared
spoke softly in smooth blandishment.
“Enough,” she said, “I will not move from here
until thou hast departed from my sight.”
“Let us adhere to that which was agreed.”
Rejoined the graceful-formed Cyllenian God,
who as he spoke thrust open with a touch
of his compelling wand the carved door.

But when she made an effort to arise,
her thighs felt heavy, rigid and benumbed;
and as she struggled to arise her knees
were stiffened? and her nails turned pale and cold;
her veins grew pallid as the blood congealed.
And even as the dreaded cancer spreads
through all the body, adding to its taint
the flesh uninjured; so, a deadly chill
entered by slow degrees her breast, and stopped
her breathing, and the passages of life.
She did not try to speak, but had she made
an effort to complain there was not left
a passage for her voice. Her neck was changed
to rigid stone, her countenance felt hard;
she sat a bloodless statue, but of stone
not marble-white—her mind had stained it black.
So from the land of Pallas went the God,
his great revenge accomplished on the head
of impious Aglauros; and he soared
on waving wings into the opened skies:
and there his father called him to his side,
and said,—with words to hide his passion;—Son,—
thou faithful minister of my commands.—
let naught delay thee—swiftly take the way,
accustomed, to the land of Sidon (which
adores thy mother's star upon the left)
when there, drive over to the sounding shore
that royal herd, which far away is fed
on mountain grass.—

he spoke, and instantly
the herd was driven from the mountain side;
then headed for the shore, as Jove desired,—
to where the great king's daughter often went
in play, attended by the maids of Tyre.—
can love abide the majesty of kings?
Love cannot always dwell upon a throne.—
Jove laid aside his glorious dignity,
for he assumed the semblance of a bull
and mingled with the bullocks in the groves,
his colour white as virgin snow, untrod,
unmelted by the watery Southern Wind.

His neck was thick with muscles, dewlaps hung
between his shoulders; and his polished horns,
so small and beautifully set, appeared
the artifice of man; fashioned as fair
and more transparent than a lucent gem.
His forehead was not lowered for attack,
nor was there fury in his open eyes;
the love of peace was in his countenance.

When she beheld his beauty and mild eyes,
the daughter of Agenor was amazed;
but, daring not to touch him, stood apart
until her virgin fears were quieted;
then, near him, fragrant flowers in her hand
she offered,—tempting, to his gentle mouth:
and then the loving god in his great joy
kissed her sweet hands, and could not wait her will.

Jove then began to frisk upon the grass,
or laid his snow-white side on the smooth sand,
yellow and golden. As her courage grew
he gave his breast one moment for caress,
or bent his head for garlands newly made,
wreathed for his polished horns.

The royal maid,
unwitting what she did, at length sat down
upon the bull's broad back. Then by degrees
the god moved from the land and from the shore,
and placed his feet, that seemed but shining hoofs,
in shallow water by the sandy merge;
and not a moment resting bore her thence,
across the surface of the Middle Sea,
while she affrighted gazed upon the shore—
so fast receding. And she held his horn
with her right hand, and, steadied by the left,
held on his ample back—and in the breeze
her waving garments fluttered as they went.

Mentioned templesIūpiterVulcānusNeptūnusDiānaIūnō

Book III

Now Jupiter had not revealed himself,
nor laid aside the semblance of a bull,
until they stood upon the plains of Crete.

But not aware of this, her father bade
her brother Cadmus search through all the world,
until he found his sister, and proclaimed
him doomed to exile if he found her not;—
thus was he good and wicked in one deed.
When he had vainly wandered over the earth
(for who can fathom the deceits of Jove?)
Cadmus, the son of King Agenor, shunned
his country and his father's mighty wrath.

But he consulted the famed oracles
of Phoebus, and enquired of them what land
might offer him a refuge and a home.
And Phoebus answered him; “When on the plains
a heifer, that has never known the yoke,
shall cross thy path go thou thy way with her,
and follow where she leads; and when she lies,
to rest herself upon the meadow green,
there shalt thou stop, as it will be a sign
for thee to build upon that plain the walls
of a great city: and its name shall be
the City of Boeotia.”

Cadmus turned;
but hardly had descended from the cave,
Castalian, ere he saw a heifer go
unguarded, gentle-paced, without the scars
of labour on her neck. He followed close
upon her steps (and silently adored
celestial Phoebus, author of his way)
till over the channel that Cephissus wears
he forded to the fields of Panope
and even over to Boeotia.—
there stood the slow-paced heifer, and she raised
her forehead, broad with shapely horns, towards Heaven;
and as she filled the air with lowing, stretched
her side upon the tender grass, and turned
her gaze on him who followed in her path.

Cadmus gave thanks and kissed the foreign soil,
and offered salutation to the fields
and unexplored hills. Then he prepared
to make large sacrifice to Jupiter,
and ordered slaves to seek the living springs
whose waters in libation might be poured.

There was an ancient grove, whose branching trees
had never known the desecrating ax,
where hidden in the undergrowth a cave,
with oziers bending round its low-formed arch,
was hollowed in the jutting rocks—deep-found
in the dark center of that hallowed grove—
beneath its arched roof a beauteous stream
of water welled serene. Its gloom concealed
a dragon, sacred to the war-like Mars;
crested and gorgeous with radescent scales,
and eyes that sparkled as the glow of coals.
A deadly venom had puffed up his bulk,
and from his jaws he darted forth three tongues,
and in a triple row his sharp teeth stood.

Now those who ventured of the Tyrian race,
misfortuned followers of Cadmus, took
the path that led them to this grove; and when
they cast down-splashing in the springs an urn,
the hidden dragon stretched his azure head
out from the cavern's gloom, and vented forth
terrific hissings. Horrified they dropped
their urns. A sudden trembling shook their knees;
and their life-blood was ice within their veins.

The dragon wreathed his scales in rolling knots,
and with a spring, entwisted in great folds,
reared up his bulk beyond the middle rings,
high in the air from whence was given his gaze
the extreme confines of the grove below.
A size prodigious, his enormous bulk,
if seen extended where was naught to hide,
would rival in its length the Serpent's folds,
involved betwixt the planes of the Twin Bears.
The terrified Phoenicians, whether armed
for conflict, or in flight precipitate,
or whether held incapable from fear,
he seized with sudden rage; stung them to death,
or crushed them in the grasp of crushing folds,
or blasted with the poison of his breath.

High in the Heavens the sun small shadow made
when Cadmus, wondering what detained his men,
prepared to follow them. Clothed in a skin
torn from a lion, he was armed, complete,
with lance of glittering steel; and with a dart:
but passing these he had a dauntless soul.

When he explored the grove and there beheld
the lifeless bodies, and above them stretched
the vast victorious dragon licking up
the blood that issued from their ghastly wounds;
his red tongues dripping gore; then Cadmus filled
with rage and grief; “Behold, my faithful ones!
I will avenge your deaths or I will share it!”

He spoke; and lifted up a mill-stone huge,
in his right hand, and having poised it, hurled
with a tremendous effort dealing such
a blow would crush the strongest builded walls;
yet neither did the dragon flinch the shock
nor was he wounded, for his armour-scales,
fixed in his hard and swarthy hide, repelled
the dreadful impact. Not the javelin thus,
so surely by his armoured skin was foiled,
for through the middle segment of his spine
the steel point pierced, and sank beneath the flesh,
deep in his entrails. Writhing in great pain
he turned his head upon his bleeding back,
twisting the shaft, with force prodigious shook
it back and forth, and wrenched it from the wound;
with difficulty wrenched it. But the steel
remained securely fastened in his bones.
Such agony but made increase of rage:
his throat was swollen with great knotted veins;
a white froth gathered on his poisonous jaws;
the earth resounded with his rasping scales;
he breathed upon the grass a pestilence,
steaming mephitic from his Stygian mouth.

His body writhes up in tremendous gyres;
his folds, now straighter than a beam, untwist;
he rushes forward on his vengeful foe,
his great breast crushing the deep-rooted trees.

Small space gave Cadmus to the dragon's rage,
for by the lion's spoil he stood the shock,
and thrusting in his adversary's jaws
the trusted lance gave check his mad career.
Wild in his rage the dragon bit the steel
and fixed his teeth on the keen-biting point:
out from his poisoned palate streams of gore
spouted and stained the green with sanguine spray.
Yet slight the wound for he recoiled in time,
and drew his wounded body from the spear;
by shrinking from the sharp steel saved his throat
a mortal wound. But Cadmus as he pressed
the spear-point deeper in the serpent's throat,
pursued him till an oak-tree barred the way;
to this he fixed the dragon through the neck:
the stout trunk bending with the monster's weight,
groaned at the lashing of his serpent tail.

While the brave victor gazed upon the bulk
enormous of his vanquished foe, a voice
was heard—from whence was difficult to know,
but surely heard—“Son of Agenor, why

art thou here standing by this carcase-worm,
for others shall behold thy body changed
into a serpent?” Terrified, amazed,
he lost his colour and his self-control;
his hair stood upright from the dreadful fright.

But lo, the hero's watchful Deity,
Minerva, from the upper realms of air
appeared before him. She commanded him
to sow the dragon's teeth in mellowed soil,
from which might spring another race of men.
And he obeyed: and as he plowed the land,
took care to scatter in the furrowed soil
the dragon's teeth; a seed to raise up man.

'Tis marvelous but true, when this was done
the clods began to move. A spear-point first
appeared above the furrows, followed next
by helmet-covered heads, nodding their cones;
their shoulders, breasts and arms weighted with spears;
and largely grew the shielded crop of men.—
so is it in the joyful theaters
when the gay curtains, rolling from the floor,
are upward drawn until the scene is shown,—
it seems as if the figures rise to view:
first we behold their faces, then we see
their bodies, and their forms by slow degrees
appear before us on the painted cloth.

Cadmus, affrighted by this host, prepared
to arm for his defence; but one of those
from earth created cried; “Arm not! Away
from civil wars!” And with his trenchant sword
he smote an earth-born brother, hand to hand;
even as the vanquished so the victor fell,
pierced by a dart some distant brother hurled;
and likewise he who cast that dart was slain:
both breathing forth their lives upon the air
so briefly theirs, expired together. All
as if demented leaped in sudden rage,
each on the other, dealing mutual wounds.

So, having lived the space allotted them,
the youthful warriors perished as they smote
the earth (their blood-stained mother) with their breasts:
and only five of all the troop remained;
of whom Echion, by Minerva warned,
called on his brothers to give up the fight,
and cast his arms away in pledge of faith.—
when Cadmus, exiled from Sidonia's gates,
builded the city by Apollo named,
these five were trusted comrades in his toil.
Now Thebes is founded, who can deem thy days
unhappy in shine exile, Cadmus? Thou,
the son-in-law of Mars and Venus; thou,
whose glorious wife has borne to shine embrace
daughters and sons? And thy grandchildren join
around thee, almost grown to man's estate.—
nor should we say, “He leads a happy life,”
Till after death the funeral rites are paid.
Thy grandson, Cadmus, was the first to cast
thy dear felicity in sorrow's gloom.
Oh, it was pitiful to witness him,
his horns outbranching from his forehead, chased
by dogs that panted for their master's blood!
If thou shouldst well inquire it will be shown
his sorrow was the crime of Fortune—not
his guilt—for who maintains mistakes are crimes?

Upon a mountain stained with slaughtered game,
the young Hyantian stood. Already day,
increasing to meridian, made decrease
the flitting shadows, and the hot sun shone
betwixt extremes in equal distance. Such
the hour, when speaking to his fellow friends,
the while they wandered by those lonely haunts,
actaeon of Hyantis kindly thus;
“Our nets and steel are stained with slaughtered game,
the day has filled its complement of sport;
now, when Aurora in her saffron car
brings back the light of day, we may again
repair to haunts of sport. Now Phoebus hangs
in middle sky, cleaving the fields with heat.—
enough of toil; take down the knotted nets.”—
all did as he commanded; and they sought
their needed rest.

There is a valley called
Gargaphia; sacred to Diana, dense
with pine trees and the pointed cypress, where,
deep in the woods that fringed the valley's edge,
was hollowed in frail sandstone and the soft
white pumice of the hills an arch, so true
it seemed the art of man; for Nature's touch
ingenious had so fairly wrought the stone,
making the entrance of a grotto cool.
Upon the right a limpid fountain ran,
and babbled, as its lucid channel spread
into a clear pool edged with tender grass.
Here, when a-wearied with exciting sport,
the Sylvan goddess loved to come and bathe
her virgin beauty in the crystal pool.

After Diana entered with her nymphs,
she gave her javelin, quiver and her bow
to one accustomed to the care of arms;
she gave her mantle to another nymph
who stood near by her as she took it off;
two others loosed the sandals from her feet;
but Crocale, the daughter of Ismenus,
more skillful than her sisters, gathered up
the goddess' scattered tresses in a knot;—
her own were loosely wantoned on the breeze.

Then in their ample urns dipt up the wave
and poured it forth, the cloud-nymph Nephele,
the nymph of crystal pools called Hyale,
the rain-drop Rhanis, Psecas of the dews,
and Phyale the guardian of their urns.
And while they bathed Diana in their streams,
Actaeon, wandering through the unknown woods,
entered the precincts of that sacred grove;
with steps uncertain wandered he as fate
directed, for his sport must wait till morn.—
soon as he entered where the clear springs welled
or trickled from the grotto's walls, the nymphs,
now ready for the bath, beheld the man,
smote on their breasts, and made the woods resound,
suddenly shrieking. Quickly gathered they
to shield Diana with their naked forms, but she
stood head and shoulders taller than her guards.—
as clouds bright-tinted by the slanting sun,
or purple-dyed Aurora, so appeared
Diana's countenance when she was seen.

Oh, how she wished her arrows were at hand!
But only having water, this she took
and dashed it on his manly countenance,
and sprinkled with the avenging stream his hair,
and said these words, presage of future woe;
“Go tell it, if your tongue can tell the tale,
your bold eyes saw me stripped of all my robes.”
No more she threatened, but she fixed the horns
of a great stag firm on his sprinkled brows;
she lengthened out his neck; she made his ears
sharp at the top; she changed his hands and feet;
made long legs of his arms, and covered him
with dappled hair—his courage turned to fear.
The brave son of Autonoe took to flight,
and marveled that he sped so swiftly on.—

he saw his horns reflected in a stream
and would have said, “Ah, wretched me!” but now
he had no voice, and he could only groan:
large tears ran trickling down his face, transformed
in every feature.—Yet, as clear remained
his understanding, and he wondered what
he should attempt to do: should he return
to his ancestral palace, or plunge deep
in vast vacuities of forest wilds?
Fear made him hesitate to trust the woods,
and shame deterred him from his homeward way.

While doubting thus his dogs espied him there:
first Blackfoot and the sharp nosed Tracer raised
the signal: Tracer of the Gnossian breed,
and Blackfoot of the Spartan: swift as wind
the others followed. Glutton, Quicksight, Surefoot,
three dogs of Arcady; then valiant Killbuck,
Tempest, fierce Hunter, and the rapid Wingfoot;
sharp-scented Chaser, and Woodranger wounded
so lately by a wild boar; savage Wildwood,
the wolf-begot with Shepherdess the cow-dog;
and ravenous Harpy followed by her twin whelps;
and thin-girt Ladon chosen from Sicyonia;
racer and Barker, brindled Spot and Tiger;
sturdy old Stout and white haired Blanche and black Smut
lusty big Lacon, trusty Storm and Quickfoot;
active young Wolfet and her Cyprian brother
black headed Snap, blazed with a patch of white hair
from forehead to his muzzle; swarthy Blackcoat
and shaggy Bristle, Towser and Wildtooth,
his sire of Dicte and his dam of Lacon;
and yelping Babbler: these and others, more
than patience leads us to recount or name.

All eager for their prey the pack surmount
rocks, cliffs and crags, precipitous—where paths
are steep, where roads are none. He flies by routes
so oft pursued but now, alas, his flight
is from his own!—He would have cried, “Behold
your master!—It is I—Actaeon!” Words
refused his will. The yelping pack pressed on.
First Blackmane seized and tore his master's back,
Savage the next, then Rover's teeth were clinched
deep in his shoulder.—These, though tardy out,
cut through a by-path and arriving first
clung to their master till the pack came up.

The whole pack fastened on their master's flesh
till place was none for others. Groaning he
made frightful sounds that not the human voice
could utter nor the stag; and filled the hills
with dismal moans; and as a suppliant fell
down to the ground upon his trembling knees;
and turned his stricken eyes on his own dogs,
entreating them to spare him from their fangs.

But his companions, witless of his plight,
urged on the swift pack with their hunting cries.
They sought Actaeon and they vainly called,
“Actaeon! Hi! Actaeon!” just as though
he was away from them. Each time they called
he turned his head. And when they chided him,
whose indolence denied the joys of sport,
how much he wished an indolent desire
had haply held him from his ravenous pack.
Oh, how much;better 'tis to see the hunt,
and the fierce dogs, than feel their savage deeds!
They gathered round him, and they fixed their snouts
deep in his flesh: tore him to pieces, he
whose features only as a stag appeared.—
'Tis said Diana's fury raged with none
abatement till the torn flesh ceased to live.
Hapless Actaeon's end in various ways
was now regarded; some deplored his doom,
but others praised Diana's chastity;
and all gave many reasons. But the spouse
of Jove, alone remaining silent, gave
nor praise nor blame. Whenever calamity
befell the race of Cadmus she rejoiced,
in secret, for she visited her rage
on all Europa's kindred.

Now a fresh
occasion has been added to her grief,
and wild with jealousy of Semele,
her tongue as ever ready to her rage,
lets loose a torrent of abuse;
“Away!
Away with words! Why should I speak of it?
Let me attack her! Let me spoil that jade!
Am I not Juno the supreme of Heaven?
Queen of the flashing scepter? Am I not
sister and wife of Jove omnipotent?
She even wishes to be known by him
a mother of a Deity, a joy
almost denied to me! Great confidence
has she in her great beauty—nevertheless,
I shall so weave the web the bolt of Jove
would fail to save her.—Let the Gods deny
that I am Saturn's daughter, if her shade
descend not stricken to the Stygian wave.”

She rose up quickly from her shining throne,
and hidden in a cloud of fiery hue
descended to the home of Semele;
and while encompassed by the cloud, transformed
her whole appearance as to counterfeit
old Beroe, an Epidaurian nurse,
who tended Semele.

Her tresses changed
to grey, her smooth skin wrinkled and her step
grown feeble as she moved with trembling limbs;—
her voice was quavering as an ancient dame's,
as Juno, thus disguised, began to talk
to Semele. When presently the name
of Jove was mentioned—artful Juno thus;
(doubtful that Jupiter could be her love)—
“When Jove appears to pledge his love to you,
implore him to assume his majesty
and all his glory, even as he does
in presence of his stately Juno—Yea,
implore him to caress you as a God.”

With artful words as these the goddess worked
upon the trusting mind of Semele,
daughter of Cadmus, till she begged of Jove
a boon, that only hastened her sad death;
for Jove not knowing her design replied,
“Whatever thy wish, it shall not be denied,
and that thy heart shall suffer no distrust,
I pledge me by that Deity, the Waves
of the deep Stygian Lake,—oath of the Gods.”
All overjoyed at her misfortune, proud
that she prevailed, and pleased that she secured
of him a promise, that could only cause
her own disaster, Semele addressed
almighty Jove; “Come unto me in all
the splendour of thy glory, as thy might
is shown to Juno, goddess of the skies.”
Fain would he stifle her disastrous tongue;
before he knew her quest the words were said;
and, knowing that his greatest oath was pledged,
he sadly mounted to the lofty skies,
and by his potent nod assembled there
the deep clouds: and the rain began to pour,
and thunder-bolts resounded.

But he strove
to mitigate his power, and armed him not
with flames overwhelming as had put to flight
his hundred-handed foe Typhoeus—flames
too dreadful. Other thunder-bolts he took,
forged by the Cyclops of a milder heat,
with which insignia of his majesty,
sad and reluctant, he appeared to her.—
her mortal form could not endure the shock
and she was burned to ashes in his sight.

An unformed babe was rescued from her side,
and, nurtured in the thigh of Jupiter,
completed Nature's time until his birth.
Ino, his aunt, in secret nursed the boy
and cradled him. And him Nyseian nymphs
concealed in caves and fed with needful milk.
While these events according to the laws
of destiny occurred, and while the child,
the twice-born Bacchus, in his cradle lay,
'Tis told that Jupiter, a careless hour,
indulged too freely in the nectar cup;
and having laid aside all weighty cares,
jested with Juno as she idled by.

Freely the god began; “Who doubts the truth?
The female's pleasure is a great delight,
much greater than the pleasure of a male.”
Juno denied it; wherefore 'twas agreed
to ask Tiresias to declare the truth,
than whom none knew both male and female joys:
for wandering in a green wood he had seen
two serpents coupling; and he took his staff
and sharply struck them, till they broke and fled.
'Tis marvelous, that instant he became
a woman from a man, and so remained
while seven autumns passed. When eight were told,
again he saw them in their former plight,
and thus he spoke; “Since such a power was wrought,
by one stroke of a staff my sex was changed—
again I strike!” And even as he struck
the same two snakes, his former sex returned;
his manhood was restored.—

as both agreed
to choose him umpire of the sportive strife,
he gave decision in support of Jove;
from this the disappointment Juno felt
surpassed all reason, and enraged, decreed
eternal night should seal Tiresias' eyes.—
immortal Deities may never turn
decrees and deeds of other Gods to naught,
but Jove, to recompense his loss of sight,
endowed him with the gift of prophecy.
Tiresias' fame of prophecy was spread
through all the cities of Aonia,
for his unerring answers unto all
who listened to his words. And first of those
that harkened to his fateful prophecies,
a lovely Nymph, named Liriope, came
with her dear son, who then fifteen, might seem
a man or boy—he who was born to her
upon the green merge of Cephissus' stream—
that mighty River-God whom she declared
the father of her boy.—

she questioned him.
Imploring him to tell her if her son,
unequalled for his beauty, whom she called
Narcissus, might attain a ripe old age.
To which the blind seer answered in these words,
“If he but fail to recognize himself,
a long life he may have, beneath the sun,”—
so, frivolous the prophet's words appeared;
and yet the event, the manner of his death,
the strange delusion of his frenzied love, confirmed it.

Three times five years so were passed.
Another five-years, and the lad might seem
a young man or a boy. And many a youth,
and many a damsel sought to gain his love;
but such his mood and spirit and his pride,
none gained his favour.

Once a noisy Nymph,
(who never held her tongue when others spoke,
who never spoke till others had begun)
mocking Echo, spied him as he drove,
in his delusive nets, some timid stags.—

for Echo was a Nymph, in olden time,—
and, more than vapid sound,—possessed a form:
and she was then deprived the use of speech,
except to babble and repeat the words,
once spoken, over and over.

Juno confused
her silly tongue, because she often held
that glorious goddess with her endless tales,
till many a hapless Nymph, from Jove's embrace,
had made escape adown a mountain. But
for this, the goddess might have caught them. Thus
the glorious Juno, when she knew her guile;
“Your tongue, so freely wagged at my expense,
shall be of little use; your endless voice,
much shorter than your tongue.” At once the Nymph
was stricken as the goddess had decreed;—
and, ever since, she only mocks the sounds
of others' voices, or, perchance, returns
their final words.

One day, when she observed
Narcissus wandering in the pathless woods,
she loved him and she followed him, with soft
and stealthy tread.—The more she followed him
the hotter did she burn, as when the flame
flares upward from the sulphur on the torch.

Oh, how she longed to make her passion known!
To plead in soft entreaty! to implore his love!
But now, till others have begun, a mute
of Nature she must be. She cannot choose
but wait the moment when his voice may give
to her an answer.

Presently the youth,
by chance divided from his trusted friends,
cries loudly, “Who is here?” and Echo, “Here!”
Replies. Amazed, he casts his eyes around,
and calls with louder voice, “Come here!” “Come here!”
She calls the youth who calls.—He turns to see
who calls him and, beholding naught exclaims,
“Avoid me not!” “Avoid me not!” returns.

He tries again, again, and is deceived
by this alternate voice, and calls aloud;
“Oh let us come together!” Echo cries,
“Oh let us come together!” Never sound
seemed sweeter to the Nymph, and from the woods
she hastens in accordance with her words,
and strives to wind her arms around his neck.
He flies from her and as he leaves her says,
“Take off your hands! you shall not fold your arms
around me. Better death than such a one
should ever caress me!” Naught she answers save,
“Caress me!”

Thus rejected she lies hid
in the deep woods, hiding her blushing face
with the green leaves; and ever after lives
concealed in lonely caverns in the hills.

But her great love increases with neglect;
her miserable body wastes away,
wakeful with sorrows; leanness shrivels up
her skin, and all her lovely features melt,
as if dissolved upon the wafting winds—
nothing remains except her bones and voice—
her voice continues, in the wilderness;
her bones have turned to stone. She lies concealed
in the wild woods, nor is she ever seen
on lonely mountain range; for, though we hear
her calling in the hills, 'tis but a voice,
a voice that lives, that lives among the hills.

Thus he deceived the Nymph and many more,
sprung from the mountains or the sparkling waves;
and thus he slighted many an amorous youth.—
and therefore, some one whom he once despised,
lifting his hands to Heaven, implored the Gods,
“If he should love deny him what he loves!”
and as the prayer was uttered it was heard
by Nemesis, who granted her assent.
There was a fountain silver-clear and bright,
which neither shepherds nor the wild she-goats,
that range the hills, nor any cattle's mouth
had touched—its waters were unsullied—birds
disturbed it not; nor animals, nor boughs
that fall so often from the trees. Around
sweet grasses nourished by the stream grew; trees
that shaded from the sun let balmy airs
temper its waters. Here Narcissus, tired
of hunting and the heated noon, lay down,
attracted by the peaceful solitudes
and by the glassy spring. There as he stooped
to quench his thirst another thirst increased.

While he is drinking he beholds himself
reflected in the mirrored pool—and loves;
loves an imagined body which contains
no substance, for he deems the mirrored shade
a thing of life to love. He cannot move,
for so he marvels at himself, and lies
with countenance unchanged, as if indeed
a statue carved of Parian marble. Long,
supine upon the bank, his gaze is fixed
on his own eyes, twin stars; his fingers shaped
as Bacchus might desire, his flowing hair
as glorious as Apollo's, and his cheeks
youthful and smooth; his ivory neck, his mouth
dreaming in sweetness, his complexion fair
and blushing as the rose in snow-drift white.
All that is lovely in himself he loves,
and in his witless way he wants himself:—
he who approves is equally approved;
he seeks, is sought, he burns and he is burnt.

And how he kisses the deceitful fount;
and how he thrusts his arms to catch the neck
that's pictured in the middle of the stream!
Yet never may he wreathe his arms around
that image of himself. He knows not what
he there beholds, but what he sees inflames
his longing, and the error that deceives
allures his eyes. But why, O foolish boy,
so vainly catching at this flitting form?
The cheat that you are seeking has no place.
Avert your gaze and you will lose your love,
for this that holds your eyes is nothing save
the image of yourself reflected back to you.
It comes and waits with you; it has no life;
it will depart if you will only go.

Nor food nor rest can draw him thence—outstretched
upon the overshadowed green, his eyes
fixed on the mirrored image never may know
their longings satisfied, and by their sight
he is himself undone. Raising himself
a moment, he extends his arms around,
and, beckoning to the murmuring forest; “Oh,
ye aisled wood was ever man in love
more fatally than I? Your silent paths
have sheltered many a one whose love was told,
and ye have heard their voices. Ages vast
have rolled away since your forgotten birth,
but who is he through all those weary years
that ever pined away as I? Alas,
this fatal image wins my love, as I
behold it. But I cannot press my arms
around the form I see, the form that gives
me joy. What strange mistake has intervened
betwixt us and our love? It grieves me more
that neither lands nor seas nor mountains, no,
nor walls with closed gates deny our loves,
but only a little water keeps us far
asunder. Surely he desires my love
and my embraces, for as oft I strive
to kiss him, bending to the limpid stream
my lips, so often does he hold his face
fondly to me, and vainly struggles up.
It seems that I could touch him. 'Tis a strange
delusion that is keeping us apart.
“Whoever thou art, Come up! Deceive me not!
Oh, whither when I fain pursue art thou?
Ah, surely I am young and fair, the Nymphs
have loved me; and when I behold thy smiles
I cannot tell thee what sweet hopes arise.
When I extend my loving arms to thee
thine also are extended me — thy smiles
return my own. When I was weeping, I
have seen thy tears, and every sign I make
thou cost return; and often thy sweet lips
have seemed to move, that, peradventure words,
which I have never heard, thou hast returned.
“No more my shade deceives me, I perceive
'Tis I in thee—I love myself—the flame
arises in my breast and burns my heart—
what shall I do? Shall I at once implore?
Or should I linger till my love is sought?
What is it I implore? The thing that I
desire is mine—abundance makes me poor.
Oh, I am tortured by a strange desire
unknown to me before, for I would fain
put off this mortal form; which only means
I wish the object of my love away.
Grief saps my strength, the sands of life are run,
and in my early youth am I cut off;
but death is not my bane—it ends my woe.—
I would not death for this that is my love,
as two united in a single soul
would die as one.”

He spoke; and crazed with love,
returned to view the same face in the pool;
and as he grieved his tears disturbed the stream,
and ripples on the surface, glassy clear,
defaced his mirrored form. And thus the youth,
when he beheld that lovely shadow go;
“Ah whither cost thou fly? Oh, I entreat
thee leave me not. Alas, thou cruel boy
thus to forsake thy lover. Stay with me
that I may see thy lovely form, for though
I may not touch thee I shall feed my eyes
and soothe my wretched pains.” And while he spoke
he rent his garment from the upper edge,
and beating on his naked breast, all white
as marble, every stroke produced a tint
as lovely as the apple streaked with red,
or as the glowing grape when purple bloom
touches the ripening clusters.

When as glass
again the rippling waters smoothed, and when
such beauty in the stream the youth observed,
no more could he endure. As in the flame
the yellow wax, or as the hoar-frost melts
in early morning 'neath the genial sun;
so did he pine away, by love consumed,
and slowly wasted by a hidden flame.
No vermeil bloom now mingled in the white
of his complexion fair; no strength has he,
no vigor, nor the comeliness that wrought
for love so long: alas, that handsome form
by Echo fondly loved may please no more.

But when she saw him in his hapless plight,
though angry at his scorn, she only grieved.
As often as the love-lore boy complained,
“Alas!” “Alas!” her echoing voice returned;
and as he struck his hands against his arms,
she ever answered with her echoing sounds.
And as he gazed upon the mirrored pool
he said at last, “Ah, youth beloved in vain!”
“In vain, in vain!” the spot returned his words;
and when he breathed a sad “farewell!” “Farewell!”
sighed Echo too. He laid his wearied head,
and rested on the verdant grass; and those
bright eyes, which had so loved to gaze, entranced,
on their own master's beauty, sad Night closed.
And now although among the nether shades
his sad sprite roams, he ever loves to gaze
on his reflection in the Stygian wave.

His Naiad sisters mourned, and having clipped
their shining tresses laid them on his corpse:
and all the Dryads mourned: and Echo made
lament anew. And these would have upraised
his funeral pyre, and waved the flaming torch,
and made his bier; but as they turned their eyes
where he had been, alas he was not there!
And in his body's place a sweet flower grew,
golden and white, the white around the gold.
Narcissus' fate, when known throughout the land
and cities of Achaia, added fame
deserved, to blind Tiresias,—mighty seer.
Yet Pentheus, bold despiser of the Gods,
son of Echion, scoffed at all his praise,
and, sole of man deriding the great seer,
upbraided him his hapless loss of sight.

And shaking his white temples, hoar with age.
Tiresias of Pentheus prophesied,
“Oh glad the day to thee, if, light denied,
thine eyes, most fortunate, should not behold
the Bacchanalian rites! The day will come,
and soon the light will dawn, when Bacchus, born
of Semele, shall make his advent known—
all hail the new god Bacchus! Either thou
must build a temple to this Deity,
or shalt be torn asunder; thy remains,
throughout the forest scattered, will pollute
the wood with sanguinary streams; and thy
life-blood bespatter with corrupting blots
thy frenzied mother and her sisters twain.
And all shall come to pass, as I have told,
because thou wilt not honour the New God.
And thou shalt wail and marvel at the sight
of blind Tiresias, though veiled in night.”

And as he spoke, lo, Pentheus drove the seer:
but all his words, prophetic, were fulfilled,
and confirmation followed in his steps.—

Bacchus at once appears, and all the fields
resound with shouts of everybody there.—
men, brides and matrons, and a howling rout—
nobles and commons and the most refined—
a motley multitude—resistless borne
to join those rites of Bacchus, there begun.

Then Pentheus cries; “What madness, O ye brave
descendants of the Dragon! Sons of Mars!
What frenzy has confounded you? Can sounds
of clanging brass prevail; and pipes and horns,
and magical delusions, drunkenness,
and yelling women, and obscene displays,
and hollow drums, overcome you, whom the sword,
nor troops of war, nor trumpet could affright?
“How shall I wonder at these ancient men,
who, crossing boundless seas from distant Tyre,
hither transferred their exiled Household Gods,
and founded a new Tyre; but now are shorn,
and even as captives would be led away
without appeal to Mars? And, O young men,
of active prime whose vigor equals mine!
Cast down your ivy scepters; take up arms;
put on your helmets; strip your brows of leaves;
be mindful of the mighty stock you are,
and let your souls be animated with
the spirit of that dauntless dragon, which,
unaided, slew so many, and at last
died to defend his fountain and his lake.—
so ye may conquer in the hope of fame.
“He gave the brave to death, but with your arms
ye shall expel the worthless, and enhance
the glory of your land. If Fate decree
the fall of Thebes, Oh, let the engines
of war and men pull down its walls, and let
the clash of steel and roaring flames resound.
Thus, blameless in great misery, our woes
would be the theme of lamentations, known
to story; and our tears would shame us not.
“But now an unarmed boy will conquer Thebes:
a lad whom neither weapons, wars nor steeds
delight; whose ringlets reek with myrrh; adorned
with chaplets, purple and embroidered robes
of interwoven gold. Make way for me!
And I will soon compel him to confess
his father is assumed and all his rites
are frauds.
“If in days gone Acrisius
so held this vain god in deserved contempt,
and shut the Argive gates against his face,
why, therefore, should not Pentheus close the gates
of Thebes, with equal courage—Hence! Away!
Fetch the vile leader of these rioters
in chains! Let not my mandate be delayed.”

Him to restrain his grandsire, Cadmus, strove;
and Athamas, and many of his trusted friends
united in vain efforts to rebuke
his reckless rage; but greater violence
was gained from every admonition.—
his rage increased the more it was restrained,
and injury resulted from his friends.
So have I seen a stream in open course,
run gently on its way with pleasant noise,
but whensoever logs and rocks detained,
it foamed, with violence increased, against
obstruction.

Presently returning came
his servants stained with blood, to whom he said,
“What have ye done with Bacchus?” And to him
they made reply; “Not Bacchus have we seen,
but we have taken his attendant lad,
the chosen servant of his sacred rites.”
And they delivered to the noble king,
a youth whose hands were lashed behind his back.

Then Pentheus, terrible in anger, turned
his awful gaze upon the lad, and though
he scarce deferred his doom, addressed him thus;
“Doomed to destruction, thou art soon to give
example to my people by thy death:
tell me thy name; what are thy parents called;
where is thy land; and wherefore art thou found
attendant on these Bacchanalian rites.”

But fearless he replied; “They call my name
Acoetes; and Maeonia is the land
from whence I came. My parents were so poor,
my father left me neither fruitful fields,
tilled by the lusty ox, nor fleecy sheep,
nor lowing kine; for, he himself was poor,
and with his hook and line was wont to catch
the leaping fishes, landed by his rod.
His skill was all his wealth. And when to me
he gave his trade, he said, ‘You are the heir
of my employment, therefore unto you
all that is mine I give,’ and, at his death,
he left me nothing but the running waves. —
they are the sum of my inheritance.
“And, afterwhile, that I might not be bound
forever to my father's rocky shores,
I learned to steer the keel with dextrous hand;
and marked with watchful gaze the guiding stars;
the watery Constellation of the Goat,
Olenian, and the Bear, the Hyades,
the Pleiades, the houses of the winds,
and every harbour suitable for ships.
“So chanced it, as I made for Delos, first
I veered close to the shores of Chios: there
I steered, by plying on the starboard oar,
and nimbly leaping gained the sea-wet strand.
“Now when the night was past and lovely dawn
appeared, I,rose from slumber, and I bade
my men to fetch fresh water, and I showed
the pathway to the stream. Then did I climb
a promontory's height, to learn from there
the promise of the winds; which having done,
I called the men and sought once more my ship.
Opheltes, first of my companions, cried,
‘Behold we come!’ And, thinking he had caught
a worthy prize in that unfruitful land,
he led a boy, of virgin-beauty formed,
across the shore.
“Heavy with wine and sleep
the lad appeared to stagger on his way,—
with difficulty moving. When I saw
the manner of his dress, his countenance
and grace, I knew it was not mortal man,
and being well assured, I said to them;
‘What Deity abideth in that form
I cannot say; but 'tis a god in truth.—
O whosoever thou art, vouchsafe to us
propitious waters; ease our toils, and grant
to these thy grace.’
“At this, the one of all
my mariners who was the quickest hand,
who ever was the nimblest on the yards,
and first to slip the ropes, Dictys exclaimed;
‘Pray not for us!’ and all approved his words.
The golden haired, the guardian of the prow,
Melanthus, Libys and Alcimedon
approved it; and Epopeus who should urge
the flagging spirits, and with rhythmic chants
give time and measure to the beating oars,
and all the others praised their leader's words,—
so blind is greed of gain.—Then I rejoined,
‘Mine is the greatest share in this good ship,
which I will not permit to be destroyed,
nor injured by this sacred freight:’ and I
opposed them as they came.
“Then Lycabas,
the most audacious of that impious crew,
began to rage. He was a criminal,
who, for a dreadful murder, had been sent
in exile from a Tuscan city's gates.
Whilst I opposed he gripped me by the throat,
and shook me as would cast me in the deep,
had I not firmly held a rope, half stunned:
and all that wicked crew approved the deed.
“Then Bacchus (be assured it was the God)
as though the noise disturbed his lethargy
from wine, and reason had regained its power,
at last bespake the men, ‘What deeds are these?
What noise assails my ears? What means decoyed
my wandering footsteps? Whither do ye lead?’
‘Fear not,’ the steersman said, ‘but tell us fair
the haven of your hope, and you shall land
whereso your heart desires.’ ‘To Naxos steer,’
Quoth Bacchus, ‘for it is indeed my home,
and there the mariner finds welcome cheer.’
Him to deceive, they pledged themselves, and swore
by Gods of seas and skies to do his will:
and they commanded me to steer that way.
“The Isle of Naxos was upon our right;
and when they saw the sails were set that way,
they all began to shout at once, ‘What, ho!
Thou madman! what insanity is this,
Acoetes? Make our passage to the left.’
And all the while they made their meaning known
by artful signs or whispers in my ears.
“I was amazed and answered, ‘Take the helm.’
And I refused to execute their will,
atrocious, and at once resigned command.
Then all began to murmur, and the crew
reviled me. Up Aethalion jumped and said,
‘As if our only safety is in you!’
With this he swaggered up and took command;
and leaving Naxos steered for other shores.
“Then Bacchus, mocking them,—as if but then
he had discovered their deceitful ways,—
looked on the ocean from the rounded stern,
and seemed to sob as he addressed the men;
‘Ah mariners, what alien shores are these?
'Tis not the land you promised nor the port
my heart desires. For what have I deserved
this cruel wrong? What honour can accrue
if strong men mock a boy; a lonely youth
if many should deceive?’ And as he spoke,
I, also, wept to see their wickedness.
“The impious gang made merry at our tears,
and lashed the billows with their quickening oars.
By Bacchus do I swear to you (and naught
celestial is more potent) all the things
I tell you are as true as they surpass
the limit of belief. The ship stood still
as if a dry dock held it in the sea.—
“The wondering sailors laboured at the oars,
and they unfurled the sails, in hopes to gain
some headway, with redoubled energies;
but twisting ivy tangled in the oars,
and interlacing held them by its weight.
And Bacchus in the midst of all stood crowned
with chaplets of grape-leaves, and shook a lance
covered with twisted fronds of leafy vines.
Around him crouched the visionary forms
of tigers, lynxes, and the mottled shapes
of panthers.
“Then the mariners leaped out,
possessed by fear or madness. Medon first
began to turn a swarthy hue, and fins
grew outward from his flattened trunk,
and with a curving spine his body bent.—
then Lycabas to him, ‘What prodigy
is this that I behold?’ Even as he spoke,
his jaws were broadened and his nose was bent;
his hardened skin was covered with bright scales.
And Libys, as he tried to pull the oars,
could see his own hands shrivel into fins;
another of the crew began to grasp
the twisted ropes, but even as he strove
to lift his arms they fastened to his sides;—
with bending body and a crooked back
he plunged into the waves, and as he swam
displayed a tail, as crescent as the moon.
“Now here, now there, they flounce about the ship;
they spray her decks with brine; they rise and sink;
they rise again, and dive beneath the waves;
they seem in sportive dance upon the main;
out from their nostrils they spout sprays of brine;
they toss their supple sides. And I alone,
of twenty mariners that manned that ship,
remained. A cold chill seized my limbs,—
I was so frightened; but the gracious God
now spake me fair, ‘Fear not and steer for Naxos.’
And when we landed there I ministered
on smoking altars Bacchanalian rites.”

But Pentheus answered him: “A parlous tale,
and we have listened to the dreary end,
hoping our anger might consume its rage;—
away with him! hence drag him, hurl him out,
with dreadful torture, into Stygian night.”

Quickly they seized and dragged Acoetes forth,
and cast him in a dungeon triple-strong.
And while they fixed the instruments of death,
kindled the fires, and wrought the cruel irons,
the legend says, though no one aided him,
the chains were loosened and slipped off his arms;
the doors flew open of their own accord.

But Pentheus, long-persisting in his rage,
not caring to command his men to go,
himself went forth to Mount Cithaeron, where
resound with singing and with shrilly note
the votaries of Bacchus at their rites.
As when with sounding brass the trumpeter
alarms of war, the mettled charger neighs
and scents the battle; so the clamored skies
resounding with the dreadful outcries fret
the wrath of Pentheus and his rage enflame.

About the middle of the mount (with groves
around its margin) was a treeless plain,
where nothing might conceal. Here as he stood
to view the sacred rites with impious eyes,
his mother saw him first. She was so wrought
with frenzy that she failed to know her son,
and cast her thyrsus that it wounded him;
and shouted, “Hi! come hither, Ho!
Come hither my two sisters! a great boar
hath strayed into our fields; come! see me strike
and wound him!”

As he fled from them in fright
the raging multitude rushed after him;
and, as they gathered round; in cowardice
he cried for mercy and condemned himself,
confessing he had sinned against a God.
And as they wounded him he called his aunt;
“Autonoe have mercy! Let the shade
of sad Actaeon move thee to relent!”
No pity moved her when she heard that name;
in a wild frenzy she forgot her son.
While Pentheus was imploring her, she tore
his right arm out; her sister Ino wrenched
the other from his trunk. He could not stretch
his arms out to his mother, but he cried,
“Behold me, mother!” When Agave saw,
his bleeding limbs, torn, scattered on the ground,
she howled, and tossed her head, and shook her hair
that streamed upon the breeze; and when his head
was wrenched out from his mangled corpse,
she clutched it with her blood-smeared fingers, while
she shouted, “Ho! companions! victory!
The victory is ours!” So when the wind
strips from a lofty tree its leaves, which touched
by autumn's cold are loosely held, they fall
not quicker than the wretch's bleeding limbs
were torn asunder by their cursed hands.

Now, frightened by this terrible event,
the women of Ismenus celebrate
the new Bacchantian rites; and they revere
the sacred altars, heaped with frankincense.

Mentioned templesIūpiterDiānaIūnō

Book IV

Alcithoe, daughter of King Minyas,
consents not to the orgies of the God;
denies that Bacchus is the son of Jove,
and her two sisters join her in that crime.

'Twas festal-day when matrons and their maids,
keeping it sacred, had forbade all toil.—
And having draped their bosoms with wild skins,
they loosed their long hair for the sacred wreaths,
and took the leafy thyrsus in their hands;—
for so the priest commanded them. Austere
the wrath of Bacchus if his power be scorned.

Mothers and youthful brides obeyed the priest;
and putting by their wickers and their webs,
dropt their unfinished toils to offer up
frankincense to the God; invoking him
with many names:—“O Bacchus! O Twice-born!
O Fire-begot! Thou only child Twice-mothered!
God of all those who plant the luscious grape!
O Liber!” All these names and many more,
for ages known—throughout the lands of Greece.

“Thy youth is not consumed by wasting time;
and lo, thou art an ever-youthful boy,
most beautiful of all the Gods of Heaven,
smooth as a virgin when thy horns are hid.—
The distant east to tawny India's clime,
where rolls remotest Ganges to the sea,
was conquered by thy might.—O Most-revered!
Thou didst destroy the doubting Pentheus,
and hurled the sailors' bodies in the deep,
and smote Lycurgus, wielder of the ax.

“And thou dost guide thy lynxes, double-yoked,
with showy harness.—Satyrs follow thee;
and Bacchanals, and old Silenus, drunk,
unsteady on his staff; jolting so rough
on his small back-bent ass; and all the way
resounds a youthful clamour; and the screams
of women! and the noise of tambourines!
And the hollow cymbals! and the boxwood flutes,—
fitted with measured holes.—Thou art implored
by all Ismenian women to appear
peaceful and mild; and they perform thy rites.”

Only the daughters of King Minyas
are carding wool within their fastened doors,
or twisting with their thumbs the fleecy yarn,
or working at the web. So they corrupt
the sacred festival with needless toil,
keeping their hand-maids busy at the work.

And one of them, while drawing out the thread
with nimble thumb, anon began to speak;
“While others loiter and frequent these rites
fantastic, we the wards of Pallas, much
to be preferred, by speaking novel thoughts
may lighten labour. Let us each in turn,
relate to an attentive audience,
a novel tale; and so the hours may glide.”
it pleased her sisters, and they ordered her
to tell the story that she loved the most.

So, as she counted in her well-stored mind
the many tales she knew, first doubted she
whether to tell the tale of Derceto,—
that Babylonian, who, aver the tribes
of Palestine, in limpid ponds yet lives,—
her body changed, and scales upon her limbs;
or how her daughter, having taken wings,
passed her declining years in whitened towers.
Or should she tell of Nais, who with herbs,
too potent, into fishes had transformed
the bodies of her lovers, till she met
herself the same sad fate; or of that tree
which sometime bore white fruit, but now is changed
and darkened by the blood that stained its roots.—
Pleased with the novelty of this, at once
she tells the tale of Pyramus and Thisbe;—
and swiftly as she told it unto them,
the fleecy wool was twisted into threads.
When Pyramus and Thisbe, who were known
the one most handsome of all youthful men,
the other loveliest of all eastern girls,—
lived in adjoining houses, near the walls
that Queen Semiramis had built of brick
around her famous city, they grew fond,
and loved each other—meeting often there—
and as the days went by their love increased.

They wished to join in marriage, but that joy
their fathers had forbidden them to hope;
and yet the passion that with equal strength
inflamed their minds no parents could forbid.
No relatives had guessed their secret love,
for all their converse was by nods and signs;
and as a smoldering fire may gather heat,
the more 'tis smothered, so their love increased.

Now, it so happened, a partition built
between their houses, many years ago,
was made defective with a little chink;
a small defect observed by none, although
for ages there; but what is hid from love?
Our lovers found the secret opening,
and used its passage to convey the sounds
of gentle, murmured words, whose tuneful note
passed oft in safety through that hidden way.

There, many a time, they stood on either side,
thisbe on one and Pyramus the other,
and when their warm breath touched from lip to lip,
their sighs were such as this: “Thou envious wall
why art thou standing in the way of those
who die for love? What harm could happen thee
shouldst thou permit us to enjoy our love?
But if we ask too much, let us persuade
that thou wilt open while we kiss but once:
for, we are not ungrateful; unto thee
we own our debt; here thou hast left a way
that breathed words may enter loving ears.,”
so vainly whispered they, and when the night
began to darken they exchanged farewells;
made presence that they kissed a fond farewell
vain kisses that to love might none avail.

When dawn removed the glimmering lamps of night,
and the bright sun had dried the dewy grass
again they met where they had told their love;
and now complaining of their hapless fate,
in murmurs gentle, they at last resolved,
away to slip upon the quiet night,
elude their parents, and, as soon as free,
quit the great builded city and their homes.

Fearful to wander in the pathless fields,
they chose a trysting place, the tomb of Ninus,
where safely they might hide unseen, beneath
the shadow of a tall mulberry tree,
covered with snow-white fruit, close by a spring.

All is arranged according to their hopes:
and now the daylight, seeming slowly moved,
sinks in the deep waves, and the tardy night
arises from the spot where day declines.

Quickly, the clever Thisbe having first
deceived her parents, opened the closed door.
She flitted in the silent night away;
and, having veiled her face, reached the great tomb,
and sat beneath the tree; love made her bold.

There, as she waited, a great lioness
approached the nearby spring to quench her thirst:
her frothing jaws incarnadined with blood
of slaughtered oxen. As the moon was bright,
Thisbe could see her, and affrighted fled
with trembling footstep to a gloomy cave;
and as she ran she slipped and dropped her veil,
which fluttered to the ground. She did not dare
to save it. Wherefore, when the savage beast
had taken a great draft and slaked her thirst,
and thence had turned to seek her forest lair,
she found it on her way, and full of rage,
tore it and stained it with her bloody jaws:
but Thisbe, fortunate, escaped unseen.

Now Pyramus had not gone out so soon
as Thisbe to the tryst; and, when he saw
the certain traces of that savage beast,
imprinted in the yielding dust, his face
went white with fear; but when he found the veil
covered with blood, he cried; “Alas, one night
has caused the ruin of two lovers! Thou
wert most deserving of completed days,
but as for me, my heart is guilty! I
destroyed thee! O my love! I bade thee come
out in the dark night to a lonely haunt,
and failed to go before. Oh! whatever lurks
beneath this rock, though ravenous lion, tear
my guilty flesh, and with most cruel jaws
devour my cursed entrails! What? Not so;
it is a craven's part to wish for death!”

So he stopped briefly; and took up the veil;
went straightway to the shadow of the tree;
and as his tears bedewed the well-known veil,
he kissed it oft and sighing said, “Kisses
and tears are thine, receive my blood as well.”

And he imbrued the steel, girt at his side,
deep in his bowels; and plucked it from the wound,
a-faint with death. As he fell back to earth,
his spurting blood shot upward in the air;
so, when decay has rift a leaden pipe
a hissing jet of water spurts on high.—

By that dark tide the berries on the tree
assumed a deeper tint, for as the roots
soaked up the blood the pendent mulberries
were dyed a purple tint.

Thisbe returned,
though trembling still with fright, for now she thought
her lover must await her at the tree,
and she should haste before he feared for her.
Longing to tell him of her great escape
she sadly looked for him with faithful eyes;
but when she saw the spot and the changed tree,
she doubted could they be the same, for so
the colour of the hanging fruit deceived.

While doubt dismayed her, on the ground she saw
the wounded body covered with its blood;—
she started backward, and her face grew pale
and ashen; and she shuddered like the sea,
which trembles when its face is lightly skimmed
by the chill breezes;—and she paused a space;—
but when she knew it was the one she loved,
she struck her tender breast and tore her hair.
Then wreathing in her arms his loved form,
she bathed the wound with tears, mingling her grief
in his unquenched blood; and as she kissed
his death-cold features wailed; “Ah Pyramus,
what cruel fate has taken thy life away?
Pyramus! Pyramus! awake! awake!
It is thy dearest Thisbe calls thee! Lift
thy drooping head! Alas,”—At Thisbe's name
he raised his eyes, though languorous in death,
and darkness gathered round him as he gazed.

And then she saw her veil; and near it lay
his ivory sheath—but not the trusty sword
and once again she wailed; “Thy own right hand,
and thy great passion have destroyed thee!—
And I? my hand shall be as bold as thine—
my love shall nerve me to the fatal deed—
thee, I will follow to eternity—
though I be censured for the wretched cause,
so surely I shall share thy wretched fate:—
alas, whom death could me alone bereave,
thou shalt not from my love be reft by death!
And, O ye wretched parents, mine and his,
let our misfortunes and our pleadings melt
your hearts, that ye no more deny to those
whom constant love and lasting death unite—
entomb us in a single sepulchre.

“And, O thou tree of many-branching boughs,
spreading dark shadows on the corpse of one,
destined to cover twain, take thou our fate
upon thy head; mourn our untimely deaths;
let thy fruit darken for a memory,
an emblem of our blood.” No more she said;
and having fixed the point below her breast,
she fell on the keen sword, still warm with his red blood.

But though her death was out of Nature's law
her prayer was answered, for it moved the Gods
and moved their parents. Now the Gods have changed
the ripened fruit which darkens on the branch:
and from the funeral pile their parents sealed
their gathered ashes in a single urn.
So ended she; at once Leuconoe
took the narrator's thread; and as she spoke
her sisters all were silent.

“Even the Sun
that rules the world was captive made of Love.
My theme shall be a love-song of the Sun.
'Tis said the Lord of Day, whose wakeful eye
beholds at once whatever may transpire,
witnessed the loves of Mars and Venus. Grieved
to know the wrong, he called the son of Juno,
Vulcan, and gave full knowledge of the deed,
showing how Mars and Venus shamed his love,
as they defiled his bed. Vulcan amazed,—
the nimble-thoughted Vulcan lost his wits,
so that he dropped the work his right hand held.

But turning from all else at once he set
to file out chains of brass, delicate, fine,
from which to fashion nets invisible,
filmy of mesh and airy as the thread
of insect-web, that from the rafter swings.—

Implicit woven that they yielded soft
the slightest movement or the gentlest touch,
with cunning skill he drew them round the bed
where they were sure to dally. Presently
appeared the faithless wife, and on the couch
lay down to languish with her paramour.—
Meshed in the chains they could not thence arise,
nor could they else but lie in strict embrace,—
cunningly thus entrapped by Vulcan's wit.—

At once the Lemnian cuckold opened wide
the folding ivory doors and called the Gods,—
to witness. There they lay disgraced and bound.
I wot were many of the lighter Gods
who wished themselves in like disgraceful bonds.—
The Gods were moved to laughter: and the tale
was long most noted in the courts of Heaven.

The Cytherean Venus brooded on
the Sun's betrayal of her stolen joys,
and thought to torture him in passion's pains,
and wreak requital for the pain he caused.
Son of Hyperion! what avails thy light?
What is the profit of thy glowing heat?
Lo, thou whose flames have parched innumerous lands,
thyself art burning with another flame!
And thou whose orb should joy the universe
art gazing only on Leucothea's charms.

Thy glorious eye on one fair maid is fixed,
forgetting all besides. Too early thou
art rising from thy bed of orient skies,
too late thy setting in the western waves;
so taking time to gaze upon thy love,
thy frenzy lengthens out the wintry hour!

And often thou art darkened in eclipse,
dark shadows of this trouble in thy mind,
unwonted aspect, casting man perplexed
in abject terror. Pale thou art, though not
betwixt thee and the earth the shadowous moon
bedims thy devious way. Thy passion gives
to grief thy countenance—for her thy heart
alone is grieving—Clymene and Rhodos,
and Persa, mother of deluding Circe,
are all forgotten for thy doting hope;
even Clytie, who is yearning for thy love,
no more can charm thee; thou art so foredone.

Leucothea is the cause of many tears,
Leucothea, daughter of Eurynome,
most beauteous matron of Arabia's strand,
where spicey odours blow. Eurynome
in youthful prime excelled her mother's grace,
and, save her daughter, all excelled besides.
Leucothea's father, Orchamas was king
where Achaemenes whilom held the sway;
and Orchamas from ancient Belus' death
might count his reign the seventh in descent.

The dark-night pastures of Apollo's steeds
are hid below the western skies; when there,
and spent with toil, in lieu of nibbling herbs
they take ambrosial food: it gives their limbs
restoring strength and nourishes anew.

Now while these coursers eat celestial food
and Night resumes his reign, the god appears
disguised, unguessed, as old Eurynome
to fair Leucothea as she draws the threads,
all smoothly twisted from her spindle. There
she sits with twice six hand-maids ranged around,
and as the god beholds her at the door
he kisses her, as if a child beloved
and he her mother. And he spoke to her:
“Let thy twelve hand-maids leave us undisturbed,
for I have things of close import to tell,
and seemly, from a mother to her child.”,
so when they all withdrew the god began,
“Lo, I am he who measures the long year;
I see all things, and through me the wide world
may see all things; I am the glowing eye
of the broad universe! Thou art to me
the glory of the earth!” Filled with alarm,
from her relaxed fingers she let fall
the distaff and the spindle, but, her fear
so lovely in her beauty seemed, the God
no longer brooked delay: he changed his form
back to his wonted beauty and resumed
his bright celestial. Startled at the sight
the maid recoiled a space; but presently
the glory of the god inspired her love;
and all her timid doubts dissolved away;
without complaint she melted in his arms.

So ardently the bright Apollo loved,
that Clytie, envious of Leucothea's joy,
where evil none was known, a scandal made;
and having published wide their secret love,
leucothea's father also heard the tale.
Relentlessly and fierce, his cruel hand
buried his living daughter in the ground,
who, while her arms implored the glowing Sun,
complained. “For love of thee my life is lost.”
And as she wailed her father sowed her there.

Hyperion's Son began with piercing heat
to scatter the loose sand, a way to open,
that she might look with beauteous features forth
too late! for smothered by the compact earth,
thou canst not lift thy drooping head; alas!
A lifeless corse remains.

No sadder sight
since Phaethon was blasted by the bolt,
down-hurled by Jove, had ever grieved the God
who daily drives his winged steeds. In vain
he strives with all the magic of his rays
to warm her limbs anew. — The deed is done—
what vantage gives his might if fate deny?
He sprinkles fragrant nectar on her grave,
and lifeless corse, and as he wails exclaims,
“But naught shall hinder you to reach the skies.”

At once the maiden's body, steeped in dews
of nectar, sweet and odourate, dissolves
and adds its fragrant juices to the earth:
slowly from this a sprout of Frankincense
takes root in riched soil, and bursting through
the sandy hillock shows its top.

No more
to Clytie comes the author of sweet light,
for though her love might make excuse of grief,
and grief may plead to pardon jealous words,
his heart disdains the schemist of his woe;
and she who turned to sour the sweet of love,
from that unhallowed moment pined away.
Envious and hating all her sister Nymphs,
day after day,—and through the lonely nights,
all unprotected from the chilly breeze,
her hair dishevelled, tangled, unadorned,
she sat unmoved upon the bare hard ground.

Nine days the Nymph was nourished by the dews,
or haply by her own tears' bitter brine;—
all other nourishment was naught to her.—
She never raised herself from the bare ground,
though on the god her gaze was ever fixed;—
she turned her features towards him as he moved:
they say that afterwhile her limbs took root
and fastened to the around.

A pearly white
overspread her countenance, that turned as pale
and bloodless as the dead; but here and there
a blushing tinge resolved in violet tint;
and something like the blossom of that name
a flower concealed her face. Although a root
now holds her fast to earth, the Heliotrope
turns ever to the Sun, as if to prove
that all may change and love through all remain.
Thus was the story ended. All were charmed
to hear recounted such mysterious deeds.
While some were doubting whether such were true
others affirmed that to the living Gods
is nothing to restrain their wondrous works,
though surely of the Gods, immortal, none
accorded Bacchus even thought or place.

When all had made an end of argument,
they bade Alcithoe take up the word:
she, busily working on the pendent web,
still shot the shuttle through the warp and said;
“The amours of the shepherd Daphnis, known
to many of you, I shall not relate;
the shepherd Daphnis of Mount Ida, who
was turned to stone obdurate, for the Nymph
whose love he slighted—so the rivalry
of love neglected rouses to revenge:
neither shall I relate the story told
of Scython, double-sexed, who first was man,
then altered to a woman: so I pass
the tale of Celmus turned to adamant,
who reared almighty Jove from tender youth:
so, likewise the Curetes whom the rain
brought forth to life: Smilax and Crocus, too,
transpeciated into little flowers:
all these I pass to tell a novel tale,
which haply may resolve in pleasant thoughts.
Learn how the fountain, Salmacis, became
so infamous; learn how it enervates
and softens the limbs of those who chance to bathe.
Although the fountain's properties are known,
the cause is yet unknown. The Naiads nursed
an infant son of Hermes, surely his
of Aphrodite gotten in the caves
of Ida, for the child resembled both
the god and goddess, and his name was theirs.

The years passed by, and when the boy had reached
the limit of three lustrums, he forsook
his native mountains; for he loved to roam
through unimagined places, by the banks
of undiscovered rivers; and the joy
of finding wonders made his labour light.

Leaving Mount Ida, where his youth was spent,
he reached the land of Lycia, and from thence
the verge of Caria, where a pretty pool
of soft translucent water may be seen,
so clear the glistening bottom glads the eye:
no barren sedge, no fenny reeds annoy,
no rushes with their sharpened arrow-points,
but all around the edges of that pool
the softest grass engirdles with its green.

A Nymph dwells there, unsuited to the chase,
unskilled to bend the bow, slothful of foot,
the only Naiad in the world unknown
to rapid-running Dian. Whensoever
her Naiad sisters pled in winged words,
“Take up the javelin, sister Salmacis,
take up the painted quiver and unite
your leisure with the action of the chase;”
she only scorned the javelin and the quiver,
nor joined her leisure to the active chase.

Rather she bathes her smooth and shapely limbs;
or combs her tresses with a boxwood comb,
Citorian; or looking in the pool
consults the glassed waters of effects
increasing beauty; or she decks herself
in gauzy raiment, and reposing lolls
on cushioned leaves, or grass-enverdured beds;
or gathers posies from the spangled lawns.
Now, haply as she culled the sweetest flowers
she saw the youth, and longing in her heart
made havoc as her greedy eyes beheld.

Although her love could scarcely brook delay,
she waited to enhance her loveliness,
in beauty hoping to allure his love.
All richly dight she scanned herself and robes,
to know that every charm should fair appear,
and she be worthy: wherefore she began:
“O godlike youth! if thou art of the skies,
thou art no other than the god of Love;
if mortal, blest are they who gave thee birth;
happy thy brother; happy, fortunate
thy sister; happy, fortunate and blest
the nurse that gave her bosom; but the joys
surpassing all, dearest and tenderest,
are hers whom thou shalt wed. So, let it be
if thou so young have deigned to marry, let
my joys be stolen; if unmarried, join
with me in wedlock.” So she spoke, and stood
in silence waiting for the youth's reply.

He knows nor cares for love—with loveliness
the mounting blushes tinge his youthful cheeks,
as blush-red tint of apples on the tree,
ripe in the summer sun, or as the hue
of painted ivory, or the round moon
red-blushing in her splendour, when the clash
of brass resounds in vain. And long the Nymph
implored; almost clung on his neck, as smooth
and white as ivory; unceasingly
imploring him to kiss her, though as chaste
as kisses to a sister; but the youth
outwearied, thus:
“I do beseech you make
an end of this; or must I fly the place
and leave you to your tears?” Affrighted then
said Salmacis, “To you I freely give—
good stranger here remain.” Although she made
fair presence to retire, she hid herself,
that from a shrub-grown covert, on her knees
she might observe unseen.

As any boy
that heedless deems his mischief unobserved,
now here now there, he rambled on the green;
now in the bubbly ripples dipped his feet,
now dallied in the clear pool ankle-deep;—
the warm-cool feeling of the liquid then,
so pleased him, that without delay he doffed
his fleecy garments from his tender limbs.

Ah, Salmacis, amazement is thy meed!
Thou art consumed to know his naked grace!
As the hot glitters of the round bright sun
collected, sparkle from the polished plate,
thine eyes are glistened with delirious fires.

Delay she cannot; panting for his joy,
languid for his caressing, crazed, distract,
her passion difficult is held in check.—

He claps his body with his hollow palms
and lightly vaults into the limped wave,
and darting through the water hand over hand
shines in the liquid element, as though
should one enhance a statue's ivorine,
or glaze the lily in a lake of glass.

And thus the Naiad, “I have gained my suit;
his love is mine,—is mine!” Quickly disrobed,
she plunged into the yielding wave—seized him,
caressed him, clung to him a thousand ways,
kissed him, thrust down her hands and touched his breast:
reluctant and resisting he endeavours
to make escape, but even as he struggles
she winds herself about him, as entwines
the serpent which the royal bird on high
holds in his talons; —as it hangs, it coils
in sinuous folds around the eagle's feet;—
twisting its coils around his head and wings:
or as the ivy clings to sturdy oaks;
or as the polypus beneath the waves,
by pulling down, with suckers on all sides,
tenacious holds its prey. And yet the youth,
descendant of great Atlas, not relents
nor gives the Naiad joy. Pressing her suit
she winds her limbs around him and exclaims,
“You shall not scape me, struggle as you will,
perverse and obstinate! Hear me, ye Gods!
Let never time release the youth from me;
time never let me from the youth release!”

Propitious deities accord her prayers:
the mingled bodies of the pair unite
and fashion in a single human form.
So one might see two branches underneath
a single rind uniting grow as one:
so, these two bodies in a firm embrace
no more are twain, but with a two-fold form
nor man nor woman may be called—Though both
in seeming they are neither one of twain.

When that Hermaphroditus felt the change,
so wrought upon him by the languid fount,
considered that he entered it a man,
and now his limbs relaxing in the stream
he is not wholly male, but only half,—
he lifted up his hands and thus implored,
albeit with no manly voice; “Hear me
O father! hear me mother! grant to me
this boon; to me whose name is yours, your son;
whoso shall enter in this fount a man
must leave its waters only half a man.”
Moved by the words of their bi-natured son
both parents yield assent: they taint the fount
with essences of dual-working powers.

Now though the daughters of King Minyas
have made an end of telling tales, they make
no end of labour; for they so despise
the deity, and desecrate his feast.

While busily engaged, with sudden beat
they hear resounding tambourines; and pipes
and crooked horns and tinkling brass renew,
unseen, the note; saffron and myrrh dissolve
in dulcet odours; and, beyond belief,
the woven webs, dependent on the loom,
take tints of green, put forth new ivy leaves,
or change to grape-vines verdant. There the thread
is twisted into tendrils, there the warp
is fashioned into many-moving leaves—
the purple lends its splendour to the grape.

And now the day is past; it is the hour
when night ambiguous merges into day,
which dubious owns nor light nor dun obscure;
and suddenly the house begins to shake,
and torches oil-dipped seem to flare around,
and fires a-glow to shine in every room,
and phantoms, feigned of savage beasts, to howl.—

Full of affright amid the smoking halls
the sisters vainly hide, and wheresoever
they deem security from flaming fires,
fearfully flit. And while they seek to hide,
a membrane stretches over every limb,
and light wings open from their slender arms.

In the weird darkness they are unaware
what measure wrought to change their wonted shape.
No plumous vans avail to lift their flight,
yet fair they balance on membraneous wing.
Whenever they would speak a tiny voice,
diminutive, apportioned to their size,
in squeaking note complains. Adread the light,
their haunts avoid by day the leafy woods,
for sombre attics, where secure they rest
till forth the dun obscure their wings may stretch
at hour of Vesper;—this accords their name.
Throughout the land of Thebes miraculous
the power of Bacchus waxed; and far and wide
Ino, his aunt, reported the great deeds
by this divinity performed. Of all
her sisters only she escaped unharmed,
when Fate destroyed them, and she knew not grief—
only for sorrow of her sisters' woes.—

While Ino vaunted of her mother-joys,
and of her kingly husband, Athamas,
and of the mighty God, her foster-child;
Juno, disdaining her in secret, said;
“How shall the offspring of a concubine
transform Maeonian mariners, overwhelm
them in the ocean, sacrifice a son
to his deluded mother, who insane,
tears out his entrails; how shall he invent
wings for three daughters of King Minyas,
while Juno unavenged, bewails despite?—
Is it the end? the utmost of my power?
His deeds instruct the way; true wisdom heeds
an enemy's device; by the strange death
of Pentheus, all that madness could perform
was well revealed to all; what then denies
a frenzy may unravel Ino's course
to such a fate as wrought her sisters' woe?”

A shelving path in shadows of sad yew
through utter silence to the deep descends,
infernal, where the languid Styx exhales
vapours; and there the shadows of the dead,
descend, after they leave their sacred urns,
and ghostly forms invade: and far and wide,
those dreary regions Horror and bleak Cold
obtain.

The ghosts, arrived, not know the way,—
which leadeth to the Stygian city-gates,—
not know the melancholy palace where
the swarthy Pluto stays, though streets and ways
a thousand to that city lead, and gates
out-swing from every side: and as the sea
with never-seen increase engulfs the streams
unnumbered of the world, that realm enfolds
the souls of men, nor ever is it filled.

Around the shadowy spirits go; bloodless
boneless and bodiless; they throng the place
of judgment, or they haunt the mansion where
abides the Utmost Tyrant, or they tend
to various callings, as their whilom way; —
appropriate punishment confines to pain
the multitude condemned.

To this abode,
impelled by rage and hate, from habitation
celestial, Juno, of Saturn born, descends,
submissive to its dreadful element.

No sooner had she entered the sad gates,
than groans were uttered by the threshold, pressed
by her immortal form, and Cerberus
upraising his three-visaged mouths gave vent
to triple-barking howls.—She called to her
the sisters, Night-begot, implacable,
terrific Furies. They did sit before
the prison portals, adamant confined,
combing black vipers from their horrid hair.

When her amid the night-surrounding shades
they recognized, those Deities uprose.
O dread confines! dark seat of wretched vice!
Where stretched athwart nine acres, Tityus,
must thou endure thine entrails to be torn!
O Tantalus, thou canst not touch the wave,
and from thy clutch the hanging branches rise!
O Sisyphus, thou canst not stay the stone,
catching or pushing, it must fall again!
O thou Ixion! whirled around, around,
thyself must follow to escape thyself!
And, O Belides, (plotter of sad death
upon thy cousins) thou art always doomed
to dip forever ever-spilling waves!

When that the daughter of Saturnus fixed
a stern look on those wretches, first her glance
arrested on Ixion; but the next
on Sisyphus; and thus the goddess spoke;—
“For why should he alone of all his kin
suffer eternal doom, while Athamas,
luxurious in a sumptuous palace reigns;
and, haughty with his wife, despises me.”
So grieved she, and expressed the rage of hate
that such descent inspired, beseeching thus,
no longer should the House of Cadmus stand,
so that the sister Furies plunge in crime
overweening Athamas.—Entreating them,
she mingled promises with her commands.—

When Juno ended speech, Tisiphone,
whose locks entangled are not ever smooth,
tossed them around, that backward from her face
such crawling snakes were thrown;—then answered she:
“Since what thy will decrees may well be done,
why need we to consult with many words?
Leave thou this hateful region and convey
thyself, contented, to a better realm.”

Rejoicing Juno hastens to the clouds—
before she enters her celestial home,
Iris, the child of Thaumas, purifies
her limbs in sprinkled water.

Waiting not,
Tisiphone, revengeful, takes a torch;—
besmeared with blood, and vested in a robe,
dripping with crimson gore, and twisting-snakes
engirdled, she departs her dire abode—
with twitching Madness, Terror, Fear and Woe:
and when she had arrived the destined house,
the door-posts shrank from her, the maple doors
turned ashen grey: the Sun amazed fled.

Affrighted, Athamas and Ino viewed
and fled these prodigies; but suddenly
that baneful Fury stood across the way,
blocking the passage— There she stands with arms
extended, and alive with twisting vipers.—
She shakes her hair; the moving serpents hiss;
they cling upon her shoulders, and they glide
around her temples, dart their fangs, and vomit
corruption.—Plucking from the midst two snakes,
she hurls them with her pestilential hand
upon her victims, Athamas and Ino, whom,
although the vipers strike upon their breasts,
no injury attacks their mortal parts;—
only their minds are stricken with wild rage,
inciting to mad violence and crime.

And with a monstrous composite of foam—
once gathered from the mouth of Cerberus,
the venom of Echidna, purposeless
aberrances, crimes, tears, hatred—the lust
of homicide, and the dark vapourings
of foolish brains; a liquid poison, mixed,
and mingled with fresh blood, in hollow brass,
and boiled, and stirred up with a slip of hemlock—
she took of it, and as they trembled, threw
that mad-mixed poison on them; and it scorched
their inmost vitals—and she waved her torch
repeatedly, within a circle's rim—
and added flame to flame.—

Then, confident
of having executed her commands,
the Fury hastened to the void expanse
where Pluto reigns, and swiftly put aside
the serpents that were wreathed around her robes.

At once, the son of Aeolus, enraged,
shouts loudly in his palace; “Ho, my lads!
Spread out your nets! a savage lioness
and her twin whelps are lurking in the wood;—
behold them!” In his madness he believes
his wife a savage beast. He follows her,
and quickly from her bosom snatches up
her smiling babe, Learchus, holding forth
his tiny arms, and whirls him in the air,
times twice and thrice, as whirls the whizzing sling,
and dashes him in pieces on the rocks; —
cracking his infant bones.

The mother, roused
to frenzy (who can tell if grief the cause,
or fires of scattered poison?) yells aloud,
and with her torn hair tangled, running mad,
she carries swiftly in her clutching arms,
her little Melicerta! and begins
to shout, “Evoe, Bacche!”—Juno hears
the shouted name of Bacchus, and she laughs,
and taunts her;—“Let thy foster-child award!”

There is a crag, out-jutting on the deep,
worn hollow at the base by many waves,
where not the rain may ripple on that pool;—
high up the rugged summit overhangs
its ragged brows above the open sea:
there, Ino climbs with frenzy-given strength,
and fearless, with her burden in her arms,
leaps in the waves where whitening foams arise.

Venus takes pity on her guiltless child,
unfortunate grand-daughter, and begins
to soothe her uncle Neptune with these words;—
“O Neptune, ruler of the deep, to whom,
next to the Power in Heaven, was given sway,
consider my request! Open thy heart
to my descendants, which thine eyes behold,
tossed on the wild Ionian Sea! I do implore thee,
remember they are thy true Deities—
are thine as well as mine—for it is known
my birth was from the white foam of thy sea;—
a truth made certain by my Grecian name.”

Neptune regards her prayer: he takes from them
their mortal dross: he clothes in majesty,
and hallows their appearance. Even their names
and forms are altered; Melicerta, changed,
is now Palaemon called, and Ino, changed,
Leucothoe called, are known as Deities.

When her Sidonian attendants traced
fresh footprints to the last verge of the rock,
and found no further vestige, they declared
her dead, nor had they any doubt of it.
They tore their garments and their hair—and wailed
the House of Cadmus— and they cursed at Juno,
for the sad fate of the wretched concubine.

That goddess could no longer brook their words,
and thus made answer, “I will make of you
eternal monuments of my revenge!”

Her words were instantly confirmed—The one
whose love for Ino was the greatest, cried;
“Into the deep; look—look—I seek my queen.”
But even as she tried to leap, she stood
fast-rooted to the ever-living rock;
another, as she tried to beat her breast
with blows repeated, noticed that her arms
grew stiff and hard; another, as by chance,
was petrified with hands stretched over the waves:
another could be seen, as suddenly
her fingers hardened, clutching at her hair
to tear it from the roots.—And each remained
forever in the posture first assumed.—
But others of those women, sprung from Cadmus,
were changed to birds, that always with wide wings
skim lightly the dark surface of that sea.
Unwitting that his daughter and his son
are Ocean deities, Agenor's son,—
depressed by sorrow and unnumbered woes,
calamities, and prodigies untold,—
the founder fled the city he had built,
as though fatalities that gathered round
that city grieved him deeper than the fate
of his own family; and thence, at last
arrived the confines of Illyria;
in exile with his wife.—

Weighted with woe,
bowed down with years, their minds recalled the time
when first disaster fell upon their House:—
relating their misfortunes, Cadmus spoke;
“Was that a sacred dragon that my spear
impaled, when on the way from Sidon's gates
I planted in the earth those dragon-teeth,
unthought-of seed? If haply 'tis the Gods,
(whose rage unerring, gives me to revenge)
I only pray that I may lengthen out,
as any serpent.” Even as he spoke,
he saw and felt himself increase in length.
His body coiled into a serpent's form;
bright scale's enveloped his indurate skin,
and azure macules in speckled pride,
enriched his glowing folds; and as he fell
supinely on his breast, his legs were joined,
and gradually tapered as a serpent's tail.—

Some time his arms remained, which stretching forth
while tears rolled down his human face, not changed
as yet, he said; “Hither, O hapless one!
Come hither my unhappy wife, while aught
is left of manhood; touch me, take my hand,
unchanged as yet—ah, soon this serpent-form
will cover me!”

So did he speak, nor thought
to make an end; but suddenly his tongue
became twin-forked. As often as he tried,
a hissing sound escaped; the only voice
that Nature left him. —

And his wife bewailed,
and smote her breast, “Ah, Cadmus, ah!
Most helpless one, put off that monster-shape!
Your feet, your shoulders and your hands are gone;
your manly form, your very colour gone; all—all
is changed!—Oh, why not, ye celestial Gods,
me likewise, to a serpent-shape transform!”—

So ended her complaint. Cadmus caressed
her gently with his tongue; and slid to her
dear bosom, just as if he knew his wife;
and he embraced her, and he touched her neck.

All their attendants, who had seen the change,
were filled with fear; but when as crested snakes
the twain appeared in brightly glistening mail,
their grief was lightened: and the pair, enwreathed
in twisting coils, departed from that place,
and sought a covert in the nearest grove.—
There, then, these gentle serpents never shun
mankind, nor wound, nor strike with poisoned fangs;
for they are always conscious of the past.
The fortune of their grandson, Bacchus, gave
great comfort to them—as a god adored
in conquered India; by Achaia praised
in stately temples. — But Acrisius
the son of Abas, of the Cadmean race,
remained to banish Bacchus from the walls
of Argos, and to lift up hostile arms
against that deity, who he denied
was born to Jove. He would not even grant
that Perseus from the loins of Jupiter
was got of Danae in the showering gold.

So mighty is the hidden power of truth,
Acrisius soon lamented that affront
to Bacchus, and that ever he refused
to own his grandson; for the one achieved
high heaven, and the other, (as he bore
the viperous monster-head) on sounding wings
hovered a conqueror in the fluent air,
over sands, Libyan, where the Gorgon-head
dropped clots of gore, that, quickening on the ground,
became unnumbered serpents; fitting cause
to curse with vipers that infested land.

Thence wafted by the never-constant winds
through boundless latitudes, now here now there,
as flits a vapour-cloud in dizzy flight,
down-looking from the lofty skies on earth,
removed far, so compassed he the world.

Three times did he behold the frozen Bears,
times thrice his gaze was on the Crab's bent arms.
Now shifting to the west, now to the east,
how often changed his course? Time came, when day
declining, he began to fear the night,
by which he stopped his flight far in the west—
the realm of Atlas—where he sought repose
till Lucifer might call Aurora's fires;
Aurora chariot of the Day.

There dwelt
huge Atlas, vaster than the race of man:
son of Iapetus, his lordly sway
extended over those extreme domains,
and over oceans that command their waves
to take the panting coursers of the Sun,
and bathe the wearied Chariot of the Day.

For him a thousand flocks, a thousand herds
overwandered pasture fields; and neighbour tribes
might none disturb that land. Aglint with gold
bright leaves adorn the trees,—boughs golden-wrought
bear apples of pure gold. And Perseus spoke
to Atlas, “O my friend, if thou art moved
to hear the story of a noble race,
the author of my life is Jupiter;
if valiant deeds perhaps are thy delight
mine may deserve thy praise.—Behold of thee
kind treatment I implore—a place of rest.”

But Atlas, mindful of an oracle
since by Themis, the Parnassian, told,
recalled these words, “O Atlas! mark the day
a son of Jupiter shall come to spoil;
for when thy trees been stripped of golden fruit,
the glory shall be his.”

Fearful of this,
Atlas had built solid walls around
his orchard, and secured a dragon, huge,
that kept perpetual guard, and thence expelled
all strangers from his land. Wherefore he said,
“Begone! The glory of your deeds is all
pretense; even Jupiter, will fail your need.”

With that he added force and strove to drive
the hesitating Alien from his doors;
who pled reprieve or threatened with bold words.
Although he dared not rival Atlas' might,
Perseus made this reply; “For that my love
you hold in light esteem, let this be yours.”
He said no more, but turning his own face,
he showed upon his left Medusa's head,
abhorrent features.—Atlas, huge and vast,
becomes a mountain—His great beard and hair
are forests, and his shoulders and his hands
mountainous ridges, and his head the top
of a high peak;—his bones are changed to rocks.

Augmented on all sides, enormous height
attains his growth; for so ordained it, ye,
O mighty Gods! who now the heavens' expanse
unnumbered stars, on him command to rest.
In their eternal prison, Aeous,
grandson of Hippotas, had shut the winds;
and Lucifer, reminder of our toil,
in splendour rose upon the lofty sky:
and Perseus bound his wings upon his feet,
on each foot bound he them; his sword he girt
and sped wing-footed through the liquid air.

Innumerous kingdoms far behind were left,
till peoples Ethiopic and the lands
of Cepheus were beneath his lofty view.

There Ammon, the Unjust, had made decree
Andromeda, the Innocent, should grieve
her mother's tongue. They bound her fettered arms
fast to the rock. When Perseus her beheld
as marble he would deem her, but the breeze
moved in her hair, and from her streaming eyes
the warm tears fell. Her beauty so amazed
his heart, unconscious captive of her charms,
that almost his swift wings forgot to wave.—

Alighted on the ground, he thus began;
“O fairest! whom these chains become not so,
but worthy are for links that lovers bind,
make known to me your country's name and your's
and wherefore bound in chains.” A moment then,
as overcome with shame, she made no sound:
were not she fettered she would surely hide
her blushing head; but what she could perform
that did she do—she filled her eyes with tears.

So pleaded he that lest refusal seem
implied confession of a crime, she told
her name, her country's name, and how her charms
had been her mother's pride. But as she spoke
the mighty ocean roared. Over the waves
a monster fast approached, its head held high,
abreast the wide expanse.—The virgin shrieked;—
no aid her wretched father gave, nor aid
her still more wretched mother; but they wept
and mingled lamentations with their tears—
clinging distracted to her fettered form.

And thus the stranger spoke to them, “Time waits
for tears, but flies the moment of our need:
were I, who am the son of Regal Jove
and her whom he embraced in showers of gold,
leaving her pregnant in her brazen cell, —
I, Perseus, who destroyed the Gorgon, wreathed
with snake-hair, I, who dared on waving wings
to cleave etherial air—were I to ask
the maid in marriage, I should be preferred
above all others as your son-in-law.
Not satisfied with deeds achieved, I strive
to add such merit as the Gods permit;
now, therefore, should my velour save her life,
be it conditioned that I win her love.”

To this her parents gave a glad assent,
for who could hesitate? And they entreat,
and promise him the kingdom as a dower.

As a great ship with steady prow speeds on;
forced forwards by the sweating arms of youth
it plows the deep; so, breasting the great waves,
the monster moved, until to reach the rock
no further space remained than might the whirl
of Balearic string encompass, through
the middle skies, with plummet-mold of lead.

That instant, spurning with his feet the ground,
the youth rose upwards to a cloudy height;
and when the shadow of the hero marked
the surface of the sea, the monster sought
vainly to vent his fury on the shade.

As the swift bird of Jove, when he beholds
a basking serpent in an open field,
exposing to the sun its mottled back,
and seizes on its tail; lest it shall turn
to strike with venomed fang, he fixes fast
his grasping talons in the scaly neck;
so did the winged youth, in rapid flight
through yielding elements, press down
on the great monster's back, and thrust his sword,
sheer to the hilt, in its right shoulder—loud
its frightful torture sounded over the waves.—
So fought the hero-son of Inachus.

Wild with the grievous wound, the monster rears
high in the air, or plunges in the waves;—
or wheels around as turns the frightened boar
shunning the hounds around him in full cry.

The hero on his active wings avoids
the monster's jaws, and with his crooked sword
tortures its back wherever he may pierce
its mail of hollow shell, or strikes betwixt
the ribs each side, or wounds its lashing tail,
long, tapered as a fish.

The monster spouts
forth streams—incarnadined with blood—
that spray upon the hero's wings; who drenched,
and heavy with the spume, no longer dares
to trust existence to his dripping wings;
but he discerns a rock, which rises clear
above the water when the sea is calm,
but now is covered by the lashing waves.
On this he rests; and as his left hand holds
firm on the upmost ledge, he thrusts his sword,
times more than three, unswerving in his aim,
sheer through the monster's entrails.—Shouts of praise
resound along the shores, and even the Gods
may hear his glory in their high abodes.

Her parents, Cepheus and Cassiope,
most joyfully salute their son-in-law;
declaring him the saviour of their house.
And now, her chains struck off, the lovely cause
and guerdon of his toil, walks on the shore.

The hero washes his victorious hands
in water newly taken from the sea:
but lest the sand upon the shore might harm
the viper-covered head, he first prepared
a bed of springy leaves, on which he threw
weeds of the sea, produced beneath the waves.
On them he laid Medusa's awful face,
daughter of Phorcys;—and the living weeds,
fresh taken from the boundless deep, imbibed
the monster's poison in their spongy pith:
they hardened at the touch, and felt in branch
and leaf unwonted stiffness. Sea-Nymphs, too,
attempted to perform that prodigy
on numerous other weeds, with like result:
so pleased at their success, they raised new seeds,
from plants wide-scattered on the salt expanse.

Even from that day the coral has retained
such wondrous nature, that exposed to air
it hardens.—Thus, a plant beneath the waves
becomes a stone when taken from the sea.

Three altars to three Gods he made of turf.
To thee, victorious Virgin, did he build
an altar on the right, to Mercury
an altar on the left, and unto Jove
an altar in the midst. He sacrificed
a heifer to Minerva, and a calf
to Mercury, the Wingfoot, and a bull
to thee, O greatest of the Deities.

Without a dower he takes Andromeda,
the guerdon of his glorious victory,
nor hesitates.—Now pacing in the van,
both Love and Hymen wave the flaring torch,
abundant perfumes lavished in the flames.

The houses are bedecked with wreathed flowers;
and lyres and flageolets resound, and songs—
felicit notes that happy hearts declare.
The portals opened, sumptuous halls display
their golden splendours, and the noble lords
of Cepheus' court take places at the feast,
magnificently served.

After the feast,
when every heart was warming to the joys of genial Bacchus,
then, Lyncidian Perseus asked about the land and its ways
about the customs and the character of its heroes.
Straightway one of the dinner-companions made reply,
and asked in turn, “ Now, valiant Perseus, pray
tell the story of the deed, that all may know,
and what the arts and power prevailed, when you
struck off the serpent-covered head.”

“There is,”
continued Perseus of the house of Agenor,
“There is a spot beneath cold Atlas, where
in bulwarks of enormous strength, to guard
its rocky entrance, dwelt two sisters, born
of Phorcys. These were wont to share in turn
a single eye between them: this by craft
I got possession of, when one essayed
to hand it to the other.—I put forth
my hand and took it as it passed between:
then, far, remote, through rocky pathless crags,
over wild hills that bristled with great woods,
I thence arrived to where the Gorgon dwelt.

“Along the way, in fields and by the roads,
I saw on all sides men and animals—
like statues—turned to flinty stone at sight
of dread Medusa's visage. Nevertheless
reflected on the brazen shield, I bore
upon my left, I saw her horrid face.

“When she was helpless in the power of sleep
and even her serpent-hair was slumber-bound,
I struck, and took her head sheer from the neck.—
To winged Pegasus the blood gave birth,
his brother also, twins of rapid wing.”

So did he speak, and truly told besides
the perils of his journey, arduous
and long—He told of seas and lands that far
beneath him he had seen, and of the stars
that he had touched while on his waving wings.

And yet, before they were aware, the tale
was ended; he was silent. Then rejoined
a noble with enquiry why alone
of those three sisters, snakes were interspersed
in dread Medusa's locks. And he replied:—
“Because, O Stranger, it is your desire
to learn what worthy is for me to tell,
hear ye the cause: Beyond all others she
was famed for beauty, and the envious hope
of many suitors. Words would fail to tell
the glory of her hair, most wonderful
of all her charms—A friend declared to me
he saw its lovely splendour. Fame declares
the Sovereign of the Sea attained her love
in chaste Minerva's temple. While enraged
she turned her head away and held her shield
before her eyes. To punish that great crime
Minerva changed the Gorgon's splendid hair
to serpents horrible. And now to strike
her foes with fear, she wears upon her breast
those awful vipers—creatures of her rage.

Mentioned templesIūpiterIūnōVulcānusPlūtōNeptūnus

Book V

While Perseus, the brave son of Jupiter,
surrounded at the feast by Cepheus' lords,
narrated this, a raging multitude
with sudden outcry filled the royal courts—
not with the clamours of a wedding feast
but boisterous rage, portentous of dread war.

As when the fury of a great wind strikes
a tranquil sea, tempestuous billows roll
across the peaceful bosom of the deep;
so were the pleasures at the banquet changed
to sudden tumult.

Foremost of that throng,
the rash ring-leader, Phineus, shook his spear,
brass-tipped of ash, and shouted, “Ha, 'tis I!
I come avenger of my ravished bride!
Let now your flittering wings deliver you,
or even Jupiter, dissolved in showers
of imitation gold.” So boasted he,
aiming his spear at Perseus.

Thus to him
cried Cepheus: “Hold your hand, and strike him not!
What strange delusions, O my brother, have
compelled you to this crime? Is it the just
requital of heroic worth? A fair
reguerdon for the life of her you loved?

“If truth were known, not Perseus ravished her
from you; but, either 'twas the awful God
that rules the Nereides; or Ammon, crowned
with crescent horns; or that monstrosity
of Ocean's vast abyss, which came to glut
his famine on the issue of my loins.
Nor was your suit abandoned till the time
when she must perish and be lost to you.
So cruel are you, seeking my daughter's death,
rejoicing lightly in our deep despair.—

“And was it not enough for you to stand
supinely by, while she was bound in chains,
and offer no assistance, though you were
her lover and betrothed? And will you grieve
that she was rescued from a dreadful fate,
and spoil her champion of his just rewards?
Rewards that now may seem magnificent,
but not denied to you if you had won
and saved, when she was fettered to the rock.

“Let him, whose strength to my declining years
restored my child, receive the merit due
his words and deeds; and know his suit was not
preferred to yours, but granted to prevent
her certain death.”

not deigning to reply,
against them Phineus stood; and glancing back
from him to Perseus, with alternate looks,
as doubtful which should feel his first attack,
made brief delay. Then vain at Perseus hurled
his spear, with all the force that rage inspired,
but, missing him it quivered in a couch.

Provoked beyond endurance Perseus leaped
forth from the cushioned seats, and fiercely sent
that outwrenched weapon back. It would have pierced
his hostile breast had not the miscreant crouched
behind the altars. Oh perverted good,
that thus an altar should abet the wrong!

But, though the craven Phineus escaped,
not vainly flew the whizzing point, but struck
in Rhoetus' forehead. As the barb was torn
out of the bone, the victim's heels began
to kick upon the floor, and spouting blood
defiled the festal board. Then truly flame
in uncontrolled rage the vulgar crowd,
and hurl their harmful darts.

And there are some
who hold that Cepheus and his son-in-law
deserved to die; but Cepheus had passed forth
the threshold of his palace: having called
on all the Gods of Hospitality
and Truth and Justice to attest, he gave
no comfort to the enemies of Peace.

Unconquered Pallas is at hand and holds
her Aegis to protect her brother's life;
she lends him dauntless courage. At the feast
was one from India's distant shores, whose name
was Athis. It was said that Limnate,
the daughter of the River Ganges, him
in vitreous caverns bright had brought to birth;
and now at sixteen summers in his prime,
the handsome youth was clad in costly robes.

A purple mantle with a golden fringe
covered his shoulders, and a necklace, carved
of gold, enhanced the beauty of his throat.
His hair encompassed with a coronal,
delighted with sweet myrrh. Well taught was he
to hurl the javelin at a distant mark,
and none with better skill could stretch the bow.

No sooner had he bent the pliant horns
than Perseus, with a smoking billet, seized
from the mid-altar, struck him on the face,
and smashed his features in his broken skull.

And when Assyrian Lycabas had seen
his dear companion, whom he truly loved,
beating his handsome countenance in blood.
And when he had bewailed his lost life,
that ebbed away from that unpiteous wound,
he snatched the bow that Athis used, and said;
“Let us in single combat seek revenge;
not long will you rejoice the stripling's fate;
a deed most worthy shame.” So speaking, forth
the piercing arrow bounded from the cord,
which, though avoided, struck the hero's cloak
and fastened in its folds.—

Then Perseus turned
upon him, with the trusted curving sword,
cause of Medusa's death, and drove the blade
deep in his breast. The dying victim's eyes,
now swimming in a shadowous night, looked 'round
for Athis, whom, beholding, he reclined
upon, and ushered to the other world,—
sad consolation of united death.

And Phorbas the descendant of Methion.
Who hailed from far Syene, with his friend
Amphimedon of Libya, in their haste
to join the battle, slipped up in the blood
and fell together: just as they arose
that glittering sword was driven through the throat
of Phorbas into the ribs of his companion.

But Erithus, the son of Actor, swung
a battle-ax, so weighty, Perseus chose
not combat with his curving blade. He seized
in his two hands a huge bowl, wrought around
with large design, outstanding from its mass.

This, lifting up, he dashes on his foe,
who vomits crimson blood, and falling back
beats on the hard floor with his dying head.

And next he slew Caucasian Abaris,
and Polydaemon—from Semiramis
nobly descended—and Sperchius, son,
Lycetus, long-haired Elyces, unshorn,
Clytus and Phlegias, the hero slew;—
and trampled on the dying heaped around.

Not daring to engage his enemy
in open contest, Phineus held aloof,
and hurled his javelin. Badly aimed—by some
mischance or turned—it wounded Idas, who
had followed neither side; vain-hoping thus
to shun the conflict.

Idas, filled with rage,
on Phineus gazed with futile hate, and said,
“Since I am forced unwilling to such deeds,
behold, whom you have made your enemy,
O savage Phineus! Let your recompense
be stroke for stroke.” So speaking, from the wound
he drew the steel, but, faint from loss of blood,
before his arm could hurl the weapon back,
he sank upon his knees.

Here, also, lies
Odytes,—noblest of the Cephenes,
save Cepheus only,—slaughtered by the sword
of Clymenus. And Prothoenor lies
the victim of Hypseus; by his side
Hypseus slaughtered by Lyncidas falls.

And in the midst of this destruction stood
Emathion, now an aged man, revered,
who feared the Gods, and stood for upright deeds.
And, since his years denied him strength for war,
he battled with his tongue, and railed, and cursed
their impious weapons. As that aged man
clings to the altar with his trembling hands,
Chromis with ruthless sword cuts off his head,
which straightway falls upon the altar, whence
his dying tongue denounces them in words
of execration: and his soul expires
amid the altar flames.

Then Broteas
and Ammon, his twin brother, who not knew
their equals at the cestus, by the hand
of Phineus fell; for what avails in deed
the cestus as a weapon matched with swords.
Ampycus by the same hand fell,—the priest
of Ceres, with his temples wreathed in white.

And O, Iapetides not for this
did you attend the feast! Your voice attuned
melodious to the harp, was in request
to celebrate the wedding-day with song,—
a work of peace; as you did stand aside,
holding the peaceful plectrum in your hand,
the mocking Pettalus in ridicule said,
“Go sing your ditties to the Stygian shades.”
And, mocking thus, he drove his pointed sword
in your right temple. As your limbs gave way,
your dying fingers swept the tuneful strings:
and falling you did chant a mournful dirge.—
You to avenge enraged Lycormas tore
a huge bar from the door-post, on the right,
and dashing it against the mocker crushed
his neck-bones: as a slaughtered bullock falls—
he tumbled to the ground.

Then on the left.
Cinyphian Pelates began to wrench
an oak plank from the door-post, but the spear
of Corythus, the son of Marmarus,
pinioned his right hand to the wooden post;
and while he struggled Abas pierced his side.—
He fell not to the floor, but dying hung
suspended from the door-post by his hand.

And of the friends of Perseus, Melaneus
was slain, and Dorylas whose wealth was large
in Nasamonian land. No other lord,
as Dorylas, such vast estates possessed;
no other owned so many heaps of corn.
The missile steel stood fastened in his groin,
obliquely fixed,—a fatal spot—and when
the author of his wound, Halcyoneus
the Bactrian, beheld his victim thus,
rolling his eyes and sobbing forth his soul,
he railed; “Keep for yourself of all your lands
as much as you can cover.” And he left
the bleeding corpse.

But Perseus in revenge
hurled after him a spear, which, in his need,
he ripped out from the wound, yet warm, and struck
the boaster on the middle of his nose.
The piercing steel, passed through his nose and neck,—
remained projecting from the front and back.

And while good fortune helped his hand, he slew
Clanis and Clytius, of one mother born,
but with a different wound he slaughtered each:
for, leveled by a mighty arm, his ashen spear
drove through the thighs of Clytius, right and left,
and Clanis bit the javelin with his teeth.

And by his might, Mendesian Celadon
and Atreus fell, his mother of the tribes
of Palestine, his father was unknown.
Aethion, also, who could well foresee
the things to come, but was at last deceived
by some false omen. And Thoactes fell,
the armour-bearer of the king; and, next,
the infamous Agyrtes who had slain
his father. These he slew; and though his strength
was nearly spent, so many more remained:
for now the multitude with one accord
conspired to slaughter him. From every side
the raging troops assailed the better cause.

In vain the pious father and the bride,
together with her mother, fill the halls
with lamentations; for the clash of arms,
the groans of fallen heroes drown their cries.—
Bellona in a sea of blood has drenched
their Household Gods, polluted by these deeds,
and she endeavours to renew the strife.

Perseus, alone against that raging throng,
is now surrounded by a myriad men,
led on by Phineus; and their flying darts,
as thick as wintry tail, are showered around
on every side, grazing his eyes and ears.—
Quickly he fixed his shoulder firm against
the rock of a great pillar, which secured
his back from danger, and he faced his foes,
and baffled their attack.

Upon his left
Chaonian Molpeus pressed, and on his right
a Nabathe an called Ethemon pressed.—

As when a tiger from a valley hears
the lowing of two herds, in separate fields,
though hunger urges he not knows on which
to spring, but rages equally for each;
so, Perseus doubtful which may first attack
his left or right, knows not on which to turn,
but stands attentive witness to the flight
of Molpeus, whom he wounded in the leg.

Nor could he choose—Ethemon, full of rage,
pressed on him to inflict a fatal wound,
deep in his neck; but with incautious force
struck the stone pillar with his ringing sword
and shattered the metal blade, close to the hilt;
the flying fragment pierced its owner's neck,
but not with mortal wound. In vain he pled
for mercy, stretching forth his helpless arms:
perseus transfixed him with his glittering blade,
Cyllenian.

But when he saw his strength
was yielding to the multitude, he said,
“Since you have forced disaster on yourselves,
why should I hesitate to save myself?—
O friends, avert your faces if ye stand
before me!” And he raised Medusa,s head.

Thescelus answered him; “Seek other dupes
to chase with wonders!” Just as he prepared
to hurl the deadly javelin from his hand,
he stood, unmoving in that attitude,
a marble statue.

Ampyx, close to him,
exulting in a mighty spirit, made
a lunge to pierce Lyncides in the breast;
but, as his sword was flashing in the air,
his right arm grew so rigid, there he stood
unable to draw back or thrust it forth.

But Nileus, who had feigned himself begot
by seven-fold Nile, and carved his shield with gold
and silver streams, alternate seven, shouted;
“Look, look! O Perseus, him from whom I sprung!
And you shall carry to the silent shades
a mighty consolation in your death,
that you were slain by such a one as I.”
But in the midst of boasting, the last words
were silenced; and his open mouth, although
incapable of motion, seemed intent
to utter speech.

Then Eryx, chiding says;
“Your craven spirits have benumbed you, not
Medusa's poison.—Come with me and strike
this youthful mover of magician charms
down to the ground.”—He started with a rush;
the earth detained his steps; it held him fast;
he could not speak; he stood, complete with arms,
a statue.

Such a penalty was theirs,
and justly earned; but near by there was one,
aconteus, who defending Perseus, saw
medusa as he fought; and at the sight
the soldier hardened to an upright stone.—
Assured he was alive, Astyages
now struck him with his long sword, but the blade
resounded with a ringing note; and there,
astonished at the sound, Astyages,
himself, assumed that nature; and remained
with wonder pictured on his marble face.

And not to weary with the names of men,
sprung from the middle classes, there remained
two hundred warriors eager for the fight—
as soon as they could see Medusa's face,
two hundred warriors stiffened into stone.

At last, repentant, Phineus dreads the war,
unjust, for in a helpless fright he sees
the statues standing in strange attitudes;
and, recognizing his adherents, calls
on each by name to rescue from that death.
Still unbelieving he begins to touch
the bodies, nearest to himself, and all
are hard stone.

Having turned his eyes away,
he stretched his hands and arms obliquely back
to Perseus, and confessed his wicked deeds;
and thus imploring spoke;
“Remove, I pray,
O Perseus, thou invincible, remove
from me that dreadful Gorgon: take away
the stone-creating countenance of thy
unspeakable Medusa! For we warred
not out of hatred, nor to gain a throne,
but clashed our weapons for a woman's sake.—

“Thy merit proved thy valid claim, and time
gave argument for mine. It grieves me not
to yield, O bravest, only give me life,
and all the rest be thine.” Such words implored
the craven, never daring to address
his eyes to whom he spoke.

And thus returned
the valiant Perseus; “I will grant to you,
O timid-hearted Phineus! as behoves
your conduct; and it should appear a gift,
magnanimous, to one who fears to move.—
Take courage, for no steel shall violate
your carcase; and, moreover, you shall be
a monument, that ages may record
your unforgotten name. You shall be seen
thus always, in the palace where resides
my father-in-law, that my surrendered spouse
may soften her great grief when she but sees
the darling image of her first betrothed.”

He spoke, and moved Medusa to that side
where Phineus had turned his trembling face:
and as he struggled to avert his gaze
his neck grew stiff; the moisture of his eyes
was hardened into stone.—And since that day
his timid face and coward eyes and hands,
forever shall be guilty as in life.

After such deeds, victorious Perseus turned,
and sought the confines of his native land;
together with his bride; which, having reached,
he punished Proetus—who by force of arms
had routed his own brother from the throne
of Argos. By his aid Acrisius,
although his undeserving parent, gained
his citadels once more: for Proetus failed,
with all his arms and towers unjustly held,
to quell the grim-eyed monster, snake-begin.

Yet not the valour of the youth, upheld
by many labours, nor his grievous wrongs
have softened you, O Polydectes! king
of Little Seriphus; but bitter hate
ungoverned, rankles in your hardened heart—
there is no limit to your unjust rage.
Even his praises are defamed by you
and all your arguments are given to prove
Medusa's death a fraud.—Perseus rejoined;
“By this we give our true pledge of the truth,
avert your eyes!” And by Medusa's face
he made the features of that impious king
a bloodless stone.
Through all these mighty deeds
Pallas, Minerva, had availed to guide
her gold-begotten brother. Now she sped,
surrounded in a cloud, from Seriphus,
while Cynthus on the right, and Gyarus
far faded from her view. And where a path,
high over the deep sea, leads the near way,
she winged the air for Thebes, and Helicon
haunt of the Virgin Nine.

High on that mount
she stayed her flight, and with these words bespoke
those well-taught sisters; “Fame has given to me
the knowledge of a new-made fountain—gift
of Pegasus, that fleet steed, from the blood
of dread Medusa sprung—it opened when
his hard hoof struck the ground.—It is the cause
that brought me.—For my longing to have seen
this fount, miraculous and wonderful,
grows not the less in that myself did see
the swift steed, nascent from maternal blood.”

To which Urania thus; “Whatever the cause
that brings thee to our habitation, thou,
O goddess, art to us the greatest joy.
And now, to answer thee, reports are true;
this fountain is the work of Pegasus,”

And having said these words, she gladly thence
conducted Pallas to the sacred streams.

And Pallas, after she had long admired
that fountain, flowing where the hoof had struck,
turned round to view the groves of ancient trees;
the grottoes and the grass bespangled, rich
with flowers unnumbered—all so beautiful
she deemed the charm of that locality
a fair surrounding for the studious days
of those Mnemonian Maids.
But one of them
addressed her thus; “O thou whose valour gave
thy mind to greater deeds! if thou hadst stooped
to us, Minerva, we had welcomed thee
most worthy of our choir! Thy words are true;
and well hast thou approved the joys of art,
and this retreat. Most happy would we be
if only we were safe; but wickedness
admits of no restraint, and everything
affrights our virgin minds; and everywhere
the dreadful Pyrenaeus haunts our sight;—
scarcely have we recovered from the shock.

“That savage, with his troops of Thrace. had seized
the lands of Daulis and of Phocis, where
he ruled in tyranny; and when we sought
the Temples of Parnassus, he observed
us on our way;—and knowing our estate,
pretending to revere our sacred lives,
he said; ‘O Muses, I beseech you pause!
Choose now the shelter of my roof and shun
the heavy stars that teem with pouring rain;
nor hesitate, for often the glorious Gods
have entered humbler homes.’

“Moved by his words,
and by the growing storm, we gave assent,
and entered his first house. But presently
the storm abated, and the southern wind
was conquered by the north; the black clouds fled,
and soon the skies were clear.

“At once we sought
to quit the house, but Pyrenaeus closed
all means of exit,—and prepared to force
our virtue. Instantly we spread our wings,
and so escaped; but on a lofty tower
he stood, as if to follow, and exclaimed;
‘A path for you marks out a way for me.,
and quite insane, he leaped down from the top
of that high tower.—Falling on his face,
the bones were crushed, and as his life ebbed out
the ground was crimsoned with his wicked blood.”
So spoke the Muse. And now was heard the sound
of pennons in the air, and voices, too,
gave salutations from the lofty trees.

Minerva, thinking they were human tongues,
looked up in question whence the perfect words;
but on the boughs, nine ugly magpies perched,
those mockers of all sounds, which now complained
their hapless fate. And as she wondering stood,
Urania, goddess of the Muse, rejoined;—

“Look, those but lately worsted in dispute
augment the number of unnumbered birds.—
Pierus was their father, very rich
in lands of Pella; and their mother (called
Evippe of Paeonia) when she brought
them forth, nine times evoked, in labours nine,
Lucina's aid.—Unduly puffed with pride,
because it chanced their number equalled ours,
these stupid sisters, hither to engage
in wordy contest, fared through many towns;—
through all Haemonia and Achaia came
to us, and said;—
‘Oh, cease your empty songs,
attuned to dulcet numbers, that deceive
the vulgar, untaught throng. If aught is yours
of confidence, O Thespian Deities
contend with us: our number equals yours.
We will not be defeated by your arts;
nor shall your songs prevail.—Then, conquered, give
Hyantean Aganippe; yield to us
the Medusean Fount;—and should we fail,
we grant Emathia's plains, to where uprise
Paeonia's peaks of snow.—Let chosen Nymphs
award the prize—.’ 'Twas shameful to contend;
it seemed more shameful to submit. At once,
the chosen Nymphs swore justice by their streams,
and sat in judgment on their thrones of rock.

“At once, although the lot had not been cast,
the leading sister hastened to begin.—
She chanted of celestial wars; she gave
the Giants false renown; she gave the Gods
small credit for great deeds.—She droned out, ‘Forth,
those deepest realms of earth, Typhoeus came,
and filled the Gods with fear. They turned their backs
in flight to Egypt; and the wearied rout,
where Great Nile spreads his seven-channeled mouth,
were there received.—Thither the earth-begot
Typhoeus hastened: but the Gods of Heaven
deceptive shapes assumed.—Lo, Jupiter,
(As Libyan Ammon's crooked horns attest)
was hidden in the leader of a flock;
Apollo in a crow; Bacchus in a goat;
Diana in a cat; Venus in a fish;
Saturnian Juno in a snow-white cow;
Cyllenian Hermes in an Ibis' wings.’—
Such stuff she droned out from her noisy mouth:
and then they summoned us; but, haply, time
permits thee not, nor leisure thee permits,
that thou shouldst hearken to our melodies.”
“Nay doubt it not,” quoth Pallas, “but relate
your melodies in order.” And she sat
beneath the pleasant shadows of the grove.

And thus again Urania; “On our side
we trusted all to one.” Which having said,
Calliope arose. Her glorious hair
was bound with ivy. She attuned the chords,
and chanted as she struck the sounding strings:—
“First Ceres broke with crooked plow the glebe;
first gave to earth its fruit and wholesome food;
first gave the laws;—all things of Ceres came;
of her I sing; and oh, that I could tell
her worth in verse; in verse her worth is due.

“Because he dared to covet heavenly thrones
Typhoeus, giant limbs are weighted down
beneath Sicilia's Isle—vast in extent—
how often thence he strains and strives to rise?
But his right hand Pachynus holds; his legs are pressed
by Lilybaeus, Aetna weights his head.
Beneath that ponderous mass Typhoeus lies,
flat on his back; and spues the sands on high;
and vomits flames from his ferocious mouth.
He often strives to push the earth away,
the cities and the mountains from his limbs—
by which the lands are shaken. Even the king,
that rules the silent shades is made to quake,
for fear the earth may open and the ground,
cleft in wide chasms, letting in the day,
may terrify the trembling ghosts. Afraid
of this disaster, that dark despot left
his gloomy habitation; carried forth
by soot-black horses, in his gloomy car.

“He circumspectly viewed Sicilia's vast
foundations.—Having well explored and proved
no part was shattered; having laid aside
his careful fears, he wandered in those parts.

“Him, Venus, Erycina, in her mount
thus witnessed, and embraced her winged son,
and said, ‘O Cupid! thou who art my son—
my arms, my hand, my strength; take up those arms,
by which thou art victorious over all,
and aim thy keenest arrow at the heart
of that divinity whom fortune gave
the last award, what time the triple realm,
by lot was portioned out.

‘The Gods of Heaven
are overcome by thee; and Jupiter,
and all the Deities that swim the deep,
and the great ruler of the Water-Gods:
why, then, should Tartarus escape our sway—
the third part of the universe at stake—
by which thy mother's empire and thy own
may be enlarged according to great need.

‘How shameful is our present lot in Heaven,
the powers of love and I alike despised;
for, mark how Pallas has renounced my sway,
besides Diana, javelin-hurler—so
will Ceres' daughter choose virginity,
if we permit,—that way her hopes incline.
Do thou this goddess Proserpine, unite
in marriage to her uncle. Venus spoke;—

“Cupid then loosed his quiver, and of all
its many arrows, by his mother's aid,
selected one; the keenest of them all;
the least uncertain, surest from the string:
and having fixed his knee against the bow,
bent back the flexile horn.—The flying shaft
struck Pluto in the breast.

“There is a lake
of greatest depth, not far from Henna's walls,
long since called Pergus; and the songs of swans,
that wake Cayster, rival not the notes
of swans melodious on its gliding waves:
a fringe of trees, encircling as a wreath
its compassed waters, with a leafy veil
denies the heat of noon; cool breezes blow
beneath the boughs; the humid ground is sprent
with purpling flowers, and spring eternal reigns.

“While Proserpine once dallied in that grove,
plucking white lilies and sweet violets,
and while she heaped her basket, while she filled
her bosom, in a pretty zeal to strive
beyond all others; she was seen, beloved,
and carried off by Pluto—such the haste
of sudden love.
“The goddess, in great fear,
called on her mother and on all her friends;
and, in her frenzy, as her robe was rent,
down from the upper edge, her gathered flowers
fell from her loosened tunic.—This mishap,
so perfect was her childish innocence,
increased her virgin grief.—

“The ravisher
urged on his chariot, and inspired his steeds;
called each by name, and on their necks and manes
shook the black-rusted reins. They hastened through
deep lakes, and through the pools of Palici,
which boiling upward from the ruptured earth
smell of strong sulphur. And they bore him thence
to where the sons of Bacchus, who had sailed
from twin-sea Corinth, long ago had built
a city's walls between unequal ports.

“Midway between the streams of Cyane
and Arethusa lies a moon-like pool,
of silvered narrow horns. There stood the Nymph,
revered above all others in that land,
whose name was Cyane. From her that pond
was always called. And as she stood, concealed
in middle waves that circled her white thighs,
she recognized the God, and said; ‘O thou
shalt go no further, Pluto, thou shalt not
by force alone become the son-in-law
of Ceres. It is better to beseech
a mother's aid than drag her child away!
And this sustains my word, if I may thus
compare great things with small, Anapis loved
me also; but he wooed and married me
by kind endearments; not by fear, as thou
hast terrified this girl.’ So did she speak;
and stretching out her arms on either side
opposed his way.

“The son of Saturn blazed
with uncontrolled rage; and urged his steeds,
and hurled his royal scepter in the pool.
Cast with a mighty arm it pierced the deeps.
The smitten earth made way to Tartarus;—
it opened a wide basin and received
the plunging chariot in the midst.—But now
the mournful Cyane began to grieve,
because from her against her fountain-rights
the goddess had been torn. The deepening wound
still rankled in her breast, and she dissolved
in many tears, and wasted in those waves
which lately were submissive to her rule.

“So you could see her members waste away:
her hones begin to bend; her nails get soft;
her azure hair, her fingers, legs and feet,
and every slender part melt in the pool:
so brief the time in which her tender limbs
were changed to flowing waves; and after them
her back and shoulders, and her sides and breasts
dissolved and vanished into rivulets:
and while she changed, the water slowly filled
her faulty veins instead of living blood—
and nothing that a hand could hold remained.

“Now it befell when Proserpine was lost,
her anxious mother sought through every land
and every sea in vain. She rested not.
Aurora, when she came with ruddy locks,
might never know, nor even Hesperus,
if she might deign to rest.—She lit two pines
from Aetna's flames and held one in each hand,
and restless bore them through the frosty glooms:
and when serene the day had dimmed the stars
she sought her daughter by the rising sun;
and when the sun declined she rested not.

“Wearied with labour she began to thirst,
for all this while no streams had cooled her lips;
when, as by chance, a cottage thatched with straw
gladdened her sight. Thither the goddess went,
and, after knocking at the humble door,
waited until an ancient woman came;
who, when she saw the goddess and had heard
her plea for water, gave her a sweet drink,
but lately brewed of parched barley-meal;
and while the goddess quaffed this drink a boy,
of bold and hard appearance, stood before
and laughed and called her greedy. While he spoke
the angry goddess sprinkled him with meal,
mixed with the liquid which had not been drunk.

“His face grew spotted where the mixture struck,
and legs appeared where he had arms before,
a tail was added to his changing trunk;
and lest his former strength might cause great harm,
all parts contracted till he measured less
than common lizards. While the ancient dame
wondered and wept and strove for one caress,
the reptile fled and sought a lurking place.—
His very name describes him to the eye,
a body starred with many coloured spots.

“What lands, what oceans Ceres wandered then,
would weary to relate. The bounded world
was narrow for the search. Again she passed
through Sicily; again observed all signs;
and as she wandered came to Cyane,
who strove to tell where Proserpine had gone,
but since her change, had neither mouth nor tongue,
and so was mute. And yet the Nymph made plain
by certain signs what she desired to say:
for on the surface of the waves she showed
a well-known girdle Proserpine had lost,
by chance had dropped it in that sacred pool;
which when the goddess recognized, at last,
convinced her daughter had been forced from her,
she tore her streaming locks, and frenzied struck
her bosom with her palms. And in her rage,
although she wist not where her daughter was,
she blamed all countries and cried out against
their base ingratitude; and she declared
the world unworthy of the gift of corn:
but Sicily before all other lands,
for there was found the token of her loss.

“For that she broke with savage hand the plows,
which there had turned the soil, and full of wrath
leveled in equal death the peasant and his ox—
both tillers of the soil—and made decree
that land should prove deceptive to the seed,
and rot all planted germs.—That fertile isle,
so noted through the world, becomes a waste;
the corn is blighted in the early blade;
excessive heat, excessive rain destroys;
the winds destroy, the constellations harm;
the greedy birds devour the scattered seeds;
thistles and tares and tough weeds choke the wheat.

“For this the Nymph, Alpheian, raised her head
above Elean waves; and having first
pushed back her dripping tresses from her brows,
back to her ears, she thus began to speak;
‘O mother of the virgin, sought throughout
the globe! O mother of nutritious fruits!
Let these tremendous labours have an end;
do not increase the violence of thy wrath
against the Earth, devoted to thy sway,
and not deserving blame; for only force
compelled the Earth to open for that wrong.
Think not my supplication is to aid
my native country; hither I am come
an alien: Pisa is my native land,
and Elis gave me birth. Though I sojourn
a stranger in this isle of Sicily
it yet delights me more than all the world.

‘I, Arethusa, claim this isle my home,
and do implore thee keep my throne secure,
O greatest of the Gods! A better hour,
when thou art lightened of thy cares, will come,
and when thy countenance again is kind;
and then may I declare what cause removed
me from my native place—and through the waves
of such a mighty ocean guided me
to find Ortygia.

‘Through the porous earth
by deepest caverns, I uplift my head
and see unwonted stars. Now it befell,
as I was gliding far beneath the world,
where flow dark Stygian streams, I saw
thy Proserpine. Although her countenance
betrayed anxiety and grief, a queen She reigned
supremely great in that opacous world
queen consort mighty to the King of Hell.’
“Astonished and amazed, as thunderstruck,
when Proserpina's mother heard these words,
long while she stood till great bewilderment
gave way to heavy grief. Then to the skies,
ethereal, she mounted in her car
and with beclouded face and streaming hair
stood fronting Jove, opprobrious. ‘I have come
O Jupiter, a suppliant to thee,
both for my own offspring as well as thine.
If thy hard heart deny a mother grace,
yet haply as a father thou canst feel
some pity for thy daughter; and I pray
thy care for her may not be valued less
because my groaning travail brought her forth.—
My long-sought daughter has at last been found,
if one can call it, found, when certain loss
more certain has been proved; or so may deem
the knowledge of her state.—But I may bear
his rude ways, if again he bring her back.

‘Thy worthy child should not be forced to wed
a bandit-chief, nor should my daughter's charms
reward his crime.’ She spoke;—and Jupiter
took up the word; ‘This daughter is a care,
a sacred pledge to me as well as thee;
but if it please us to acknowledge truth,
this is a deed of love and injures not.
And if, O goddess, thou wilt not oppose,
such law-son cannot compass our disgrace:
for though all else were wanting, naught can need
Jove's brother, who in fortune yields to none
save me. But if thy fixed desire compel
dissent, let Proserpine return to Heaven;
however, subject to the binding law,
if there her tongue have never tasted food—
a sure condition, by the Fates decreed.’
he spoke; but Ceres was no less resolved
to lead her daughter thence.

“Not so the Fates
permit.—The virgin, thoughtless while she strayed
among the cultivated Stygian fields,
had broken fast. While there she plucked the fruit
by bending a pomegranate tree, and plucked,
and chewed seven grains, picked from the pallid rind;
and none had seen except Ascalaphus—
him Orphne, famed of all Avernian Nymphs,
had brought to birth in some infernal cave,
days long ago, from Acheron's embrace—
he saw it, and with cruel lips debarred
young Proserpine's return. Heaving a sigh,
the Queen of Erebus, indignant changed
that witness to an evil bird: she turned
his head, with sprinkled Phlegethonian lymph,
into a beak, and feathers, and great eyes;
his head grew larger and his shape, deformed,
was cased in tawny wings; his lengthened nails
bent inward;—and his sluggish arms
as wings can hardly move. So he became
the vilest bird; a messenger of grief;
the lazy owl; sad omen to mankind.

“The telltale's punishment was only just;
O Siren Maids, but wherefore thus have ye
the feet and plumes of birds, although remain
your virgin features? Is it from the day
when Proserpina gathered vernal flowers;
because ye mingled with her chosen friends?
And after she was lost, in vain ye sought
through all the world; and wished for wings to waft
you over the great deep, that soon the sea
might feel your great concern.—The Gods were kind:
ye saw your limbs grow yellow, with a growth
of sudden-sprouting feathers; but because
your melodies that gently charm the ear,
besides the glory of your speech, might lose
the blessing, of a tongue, your virgin face
and human voice remained.

“But Jupiter,
the mediator of these rival claims,
urged by his brother and his grieving sister,
divided the long year in equal parts.
Now Proserpina, as a Deity,
of equal merit, in two kingdoms reigns:—
for six months with her mother she abides,
and six months with her husband.—Both her mind
and her appearance quickly were transformed;
for she who seemed so sad in Pluto's eyes,
now as a goddess beams in joyful smiles;
so, when the sun obscured by watery mist
conquers the clouds, it shines in splendour forth.
“And genial Ceres, full of joy, that now
her daughter was regained, began to speak;
‘Declare the reason of thy wanderings,
O Arethusa! tell me wherefore thou
wert made a sacred stream.’ The waters gave
no sound; but soon that goddess raised her head
from the deep springs; and after sue had dried
her green hair with her hand, with fair address
she told the ancient amours of that stream
which flows through Elis.—‘I was one among
the Nymphs of old Achaia,’—so she said—
‘And none of them more eager sped than I,
along the tangled pathways; and I fixed
the hunting-nets with zealous care.—Although
I strove not for the praise that beauty gives,
and though my form was something stout for grace,
it had the name of being beautiful.

‘So worthless seemed the praise, I took no joy
in my appearance—as a country lass
I blushed at those endowments which would give
delight to others—even the power to please
seemed criminal.—And I remember when
returning weary from Stymphal fan woods,
and hot with toil, that made the glowing sun
seem twice as hot, I chanced upon a stream,
that flowed without a ripple or a sound
so smoothly on, I hardly thought it moved.

‘The water was so clear that one could see
and count the pebbles in the deepest parts,
and silver willows and tall poplar trees,
nourished by flowing waters, spread their shade
over the shelving banks. So I approached,
and shrinkingly touched the cool stream with my feet;
and then I ventured deeper to my knees;
and not contented doffed my fleecy robes,
and laid them on a bending willow tree.
Then, naked, I plunged deeply in the stream,
and while I smote the water with my hands,
and drew it towards me, striking boldly forth,
moving my body in a thousand ways,
I thought I heard a most unusual sound,
a murmuring noise beneath the middle stream.

‘Alarmed, I hastened to the nearest bank,
and as I stood upon its edge, these words
hoarsely Alpheus uttered from his waves;
‘Oh, whither dost thou hasten?’ and again,
‘Oh, whither dost thou hasten?’ said the voice.

‘Just as I was, I fled without my clothes,
for I had left them on the other bank;
which, when he saw, so much the more inflamed,
more swiftly he pursued: my nakedness
was tempting to his gaze. And thus I ran;
and thus relentlessly he pressed my steps:
so from the hawk the dove with trembling wings;
and so, the hawk pursues the frightened dove.

‘Swiftly and long I fled, with winding course,
to Orchamenus, Psophis and Cyllene,
and Maenalus and Erymanthus cold,
and Elis. Neither could he gain by speed,
although his greater strength must soon prevail,
for I not longer could endure the strain.

‘Still I sped onward through the fields and woods,
by tangled wilds and over rocks and crags;
and as I hastened from the setting sun,
I thought I saw a growing shadow move
beyond my feet; it may have been my fear
imagined it, but surely now I heard
the sound of footsteps: I could even feel
his breathing on the loose ends of my hair;
and I was terrified. At last, worn out
by all my efforts to escape, I cried;
‘Oh, help me—thou whose bow and quivered darts
I oft have borne—thy armour-bearer calls—
O chaste Diana help,—or I am lost.’
‘It moved the goddess, and she gathered up
a dense cloud, and encompassed me about.—
The baffled River circled round and round,
seeking to find me, hidden in that cloud—
twice went the River round, and twice cried out,
‘Ho, Arethusa! Arethusa, Ho!’
‘What were my wretched feelings then? Could I
be braver than the Iamb that hears the wolves,
howling around the high-protecting fold?
Or than the hare, which lurking in the bush
knows of the snarling hounds and dares not move?
And yet, Alpheus thence would not depart,
for he could find no footprints of my flight.

‘He watched the cloud and spot, and thus besieged,
a cold sweat gathered on my trembling limbs.
The clear-blue drops, distilled from every pore,
made pools of water where I moved my feet,
and dripping moisture trickled from my hair.—
Much quicker than my story could be told,
my body was dissolved to flowing streams.—
But still the River recognized the waves,
and for the love of me transformed his shape
from human features to his proper streams,
that so his waters might encompass mine.

‘Diana, therefore, opened up the ground,
in which I plunged, and thence through gloomy caves
was carried to Ortygia—blessed isle!
To which my chosen goddess gave her name!
Where first I rose amid the upper air!’
“Thus Arethusa made an end of speech:
and presently the fertile goddess yoked
two dragons to her chariot: she curbed
their mouths with bits: they bore her through the air,
in her light car betwixt the earth and skies,
to the Tritonian citadel, and to
Triptolemus, to whom she furnished seed,
that he might scatter it in wasted lands,
and in the fallow fields; which, after long
neglect, again were given to the plow.

“After he had traveled through uncharted skies,
over wide Europe and vast Asian lands,
he lit upon the coast of Scythia, where
a king called Lyncus reigned. And there, at once
he sought the palace of that king, who said;
‘Whence come you, stranger, wherefore in this land?
Come, tell to me your nation and your name.’
“And after he was questioned thus, he said,
‘I came from far-famed Athens and they call
my name Triptolemus. I neither came
by ship through waves, nor over the dry land;
for me the yielding atmosphere makes way.—
I bear the gifts of Ceres to your land,
which scattered over your wide realm may yield
an ample harvest of nutritious food.’
“The envious Lyncus, wishing to appear
the gracious author of all benefits,
received the unsuspecting youth with smiles;
but when he fell into a heavy sleep
that savage king attacked him with a sword—
but while attempting to transfix his guest,
the goddess Ceres changed him to a lynx:—
and once again she sent her favoured youth
to drive her sacred dragons through the clouds.
“The greatest of our number ended thus
her learned songs; and with concordant voice
the chosen Nymphs adjudged the Deities,
on Helicon who dwell, should be proclaimed
the victors.

“But the vanquished nine began
to scatter their abuse; to whom rejoined
the goddess; ‘Since it seems a trifling thing
that you should suffer a deserved defeat,
and you must add unmerited abuse
to heighten your offence, and since by this
appears the end of our endurance, we
shall certainly proceed to punish you
according to the limit of our wrath.’

“But these Emathian sisters laughed to scorn
our threatening words; and as they tried to speak,
and made great clamour, and with shameless hands
made threatening gestures, suddenly stiff quills
sprouted from out their finger-nails, and plumes
spread over their stretched arms; and they could see
the mouth of each companion growing out
into a rigid beak.—And thus new birds
were added to the forest.—While they made
complaint, these Magpies that defile our groves,
moving their stretched-out arms, began to float,
suspended in the air. And since that time
their ancient eloquence, their screaming notes,
their tiresome zeal of speech have all remained.”

Mentioned templesIūpiterCerēsDiānaIūnōPlūtō

Book VI

All this Minerva heard; and she approved
their songs and their resentment; but her heart
was brooding thus, “It is an easy thing
to praise another, I should do as they:
no creature of the earth should ever slight
the majesty that dwells in me,—without
just retribution.”—So her thought was turned
upon the fortune of Arachne — proud,
who would not ever yield to her the praise
won by the art of deftly weaving wool,
a girl who had not fame for place of birth,
nor fame for birth, but only fame for skill!

For it was well known that her father dwelt
in Colophon; where, at his humble trade,
he dyed in Phocean purples, fleecy wool.
Her mother, also of the lower class,
had died. Arachne in a mountain town
by skill had grown so famous in the Land
of Lydia, that unnumbered curious nymphs
eager to witness her dexterity,
deserted the lush vineyards of Timolus;
or even left the cool and flowing streams
of bright Pactolus, to admire the cloth,
or to observe her deftly spinning wool.

So graceful was her motion then,—if she
was twisting the coarse wool in little balls,
or if she teased it with her finger-tips,
or if she softened the fine fleece, drawn forth
in misty films, or if she twirled the smooth
round spindle with her energetic thumb,
or if with needle she embroidered cloth;—

in all her motions one might well perceive
how much Minerva had instructed her:
but this she ever would deny, displeased
to share her fame; and said, “Let her contend
in art with me; and if her skill prevails,
I then will forfeit all!”

Minerva heard,
and came to her, disguised with long grey hair,
and with a staff to steady her weak limbs.
She seemed a feeble woman, very old,
and quavered as she said, “Old age is not
the cause of every ill; experience comes
with lengthened years; and, therefore, you should not
despise my words. It is no harm in you
to long for praise of mortals, when
your nimble hands are spinning the soft wool,—
but you should not deny Minerva's art—
and you should pray that she may pardon you,
for she will grant you pardon if you ask.”

Arachne, scowling with an evil face.
Looked at the goddess, as she dropped her thread.
She hardly could restrain her threatening hand,
and, trembling in her anger, she replied
to you, disguised Minerva:

“Silly fool,—
worn out and witless in your palsied age,
a great age is your great misfortune!— Let
your daughter and your son's wife—if the Gods
have blessed you—let them profit by your words;
within myself, my knowledge is contained
sufficient; you need not believe that your
advice does any good; for I am quite
unchanged in my opinion. Get you gone,—
advise your goddess to come here herself,
and not avoid the contest!”

Instantly,
the goddess said, “Minerva comes to you!”
And with those brief words, put aside the shape
of the old woman, and revealed herself,
Minerva, goddess.

All the other Nymphs
and matrons of Mygdonia worshiped her;
but not Arachne, who defiant stood;—
although at first she flushed up—then went pale—
then blushed again, reluctant.—So, at first,
the sky suffuses, as Aurora moves,
and, quickly when the glorious sun comes up,
pales into white.

She even rushed upon
her own destruction, for she would not give
from her desire to gain the victory.
Nor did the daughter of almighty Jove
decline: disdaining to delay with words,
she hesitated not.

And both, at once,
selected their positions, stretched their webs
with finest warp, and separated warp with sley.
The woof was next inserted in the web
by means of the sharp shuttles, which
their nimble fingers pushed along, so drawn
within the warp, and so the teeth notched in
the moving sley might strike them.—Both, in haste,
girded their garments to their breasts and moved
their skilful arms, beguiling their fatigue
in eager action.

Myriad tints appeared
besides the Tyrian purple—royal dye,
extracted in brass vessels.—As the bow,
that spans new glory in the curving sky,
its glittering rays reflected in the rain,
spreads out a multitude of blended tints,
in scintillating beauty to the sight
of all who gaze upon it; — so the threads,
inwoven, mingled in a thousand tints,
harmonious and contrasting; shot with gold:
and there, depicted in those shining webs,
were shown the histories of ancient days:—

Minerva worked the Athenian Hill of Mars,
where ancient Cecrops built his citadel,
and showed the old contention for the name
it should be given.—Twelve celestial Gods
surrounded Jupiter, on lofty thrones;
and all their features were so nicely drawn,
that each could be distinguished.—Jupiter
appeared as monarch of those judging Gods.

There Neptune, guardian of the sea, was shown
contending with Minerva. As he struck
the Rock with his long trident, a wild horse
sprang forth which he bequeathed to man. He claimed
his right to name the city for that gift.

And then she wove a portrait of herself,
bearing a shield, and in her hand a lance,
sharp-pointed, and a helmet on her head—
her breast well-guarded by her Aegis: there
she struck her spear into the fertile earth,
from which a branch of olive seemed to sprout,
pale with new clustered fruits.—And those twelve Gods,
appeared to judge, that olive as a gift
surpassed the horse which Neptune gave to man.

And, so Arachne, rival of her fame,
might learn the folly of her mad attempt,
from the great deeds of ancient histories,
and what award presumption must expect,
Minerva wove four corners with life scenes
of contest, brightly colored, but of size
diminutive.

In one of these was shown
the snow-clad mountains, Rhodope,
and Haemus, which for punishment were changed
from human beings to those rigid forms,
when they aspired to rival the high Gods.
And in another corner she described
that Pygmy, whom the angry Juno changed
from queen-ship to a crane; because she thought
herself an equal of the living Gods,
she was commanded to wage cruel wars
upon her former subjects. In the third,
she wove the story of Antigone,
who dared compare herself to Juno, queen
of Jupiter, and showed her as she was
transformed into a silly chattering stork,
that praised her beauty, with her ugly beak.—
Despite the powers of Ilion and her sire
Laomedon, her shoulders fledged white wings.
And so, the third part finished, there was left
one corner, where Minerva deftly worked
the story of the father, Cinyras;—
as he was weeping on the temple steps,
which once had been his daughter's living limbs.
And she adorned the border with designs
of peaceful olive—her devoted tree—
which having shown, she made an end of work.

Arachne, of Maeonia, wove, at first
the story of Europa, as the bull
deceived her, and so perfect was her art,
it seemed a real bull in real waves.
Europa seemed to look back towards the land
which she had left; and call in her alarm
to her companions—and as if she feared
the touch of dashing waters, to draw up
her timid feet, while she was sitting on
the bull's back.

And she wove Asteria seized
by the assaulting eagle; and beneath the swan's
white wings showed Leda lying by the stream:

and showed Jove dancing as a Satyr, when
he sought the beautiful Antiope,
to whom was given twins; and how he seemed
Amphitryon when he deceived Alcmena;
and how he courted lovely Danae
luring her as a gleaming shower of gold;
and poor Aegina, hidden in his flame,
jove as a shepherd with Mnemosyne;
and beautiful Proserpina, involved
by him, apparent as a spotted snake.

And in her web, Arachne wove the scenes
of Neptune:—who was shown first as a bull,
when he was deep in love with virgin Arne
then as Enipeus when the giant twins,
Aloidae, were begot; and as the ram
that gambolled with Bisaltis; as a horse
loved by the fruitful Ceres, golden haired,
all-bounteous mother of the yellow grain;
and as the bird that hovered round snake-haired
Medusa, mother of the winged horse;
and as the dolphin, sporting with the Nymph,
Melantho.—All of these were woven true
to life, in proper shades.

And there she showed
Apollo, when disguised in various forms:
as when he seemed a rustic; and as when
he wore hawk-wings, and then the tawny skin
of a great lion; and once more when he
deluded Isse, as a shepherd lad.

And there was Bacchus, when he was disguised
as a large cluster of fictitious grapes;
deluding by that wile the beautiful
Erigone;—and Saturn, as a steed,
begetter of the dual-natured Chiron.

And then Arachne, to complete her work,
wove all around the web a patterned edge
of interlacing flowers and ivy leaves.

Minerva could not find a fleck or flaw—
even Envy can not censure perfect art—
enraged because Arachne had such skill
she ripped the web, and ruined all the scenes
that showed those wicked actions of the Gods;
and with her boxwood shuttle in her hand,
struck the unhappy mortal on her head,—
struck sharply thrice, and even once again.

Arachne's spirit, deigning not to brook
such insult, brooded on it, till she tied
a cord around her neck, and hung herself.

Minerva, moved to pity at the sight,
sustained and saved her from that bitter death;
but, angry still, pronounced another doom:
“Although I grant you life, most wicked one,
your fate shall be to dangle on a cord,
and your posterity forever shall
take your example, that your punishment
may last forever!” Even as she spoke,
before withdrawing from her victim's sight,
she sprinkled her with juice—extract of herbs
of Hecate.

At once all hair fell off,
her nose and ears remained not, and her head
shrunk rapidly in size, as well as all
her body, leaving her diminutive.—
Her slender fingers gathered to her sides
as long thin legs; and all her other parts
were fast absorbed in her abdomen—whence
she vented a fine thread;—and ever since,
Arachne, as a spider, weaves her web.
All Lydia was astonished at her fate
the Rumor spread to Phrygia, soon the world
was filled with fear and wonder. Niobe
had known her long before,—when in Maeonia
near to Mount Sipylus; but the sad fate
which overtook Arachne, lost on her,
she never ceased her boasting and refused
to honor the great Gods.

So many things
increased her pride: She loved to boast
her husband's skill, their noble family,
the rising grandeur of their kingdom. Such
felicities were great delights to her;
but nothing could exceed the haughty way
she boasted of her children: and, in truth,
Niobe might have been adjudged on earth,
the happiest mother of mankind, if pride
had not destroyed her wit.

It happened then,
that Manto, daughter of Tiresias,
who told the future; when she felt the fire
of prophecy descend upon her, rushed
upon the street and shouted in the midst:

“You women of Ismenus! go and give
to high Latona and her children, twain,
incense and prayer. Go, and with laurel wreathe
your hair in garlands, as your sacred prayers
arise to heaven. Give heed, for by my speech
Latona has ordained these holy rites.”

At once, the Theban women wreathe their brows
with laurel, and they cast in hallowed flame
the grateful incense, while they supplicate
all favors of the ever-living Gods.

And while they worship, Niobe comes there,
surrounded with a troup that follow her,
and most conspicuous in her purple robe,
bright with inwoven threads of yellow gold.
Beautiful in her anger, she tosses back
her graceful head. The glory of her hair
shines on her shoulders. Standing forth,
she looks upon them with her haughty eyes,
and taunts them, “Madness has prevailed on you
to worship some imagined Gods of Heaven,
which you have only heard of; but the Gods
that truly are on earth, and can be seen,
are all neglected! Come, explain to me,
why is Latona worshiped and adored,
and frankincense not offered unto me?
For my divinity is known to you.

“Tantalus was my father, who alone
approached the tables of the Gods in heaven;
my mother, sister of the Pleiades,
was daughter of huge Atlas, who supports
the world upon his shoulders; I can boast
of Jupiter as father of my sire,
I count him also as my father-in-law.
The peoples of my Phrygia dread my power,
and I am mistress of the palace built
by Cadmus. By my husband, I am queen
of those great walls that reared themselves
to the sweet music of his sounding lyre.
We rule together all the people they
encompass and defend. And everywhere
my gaze is turned, an evidence of wealth
is witnessed.

“In my features you can see
the beauty of a goddess, but above
that majesty is all the glory due
to me, the mother of my seven sons
and daughters seven. And the time will come
when by their marriage they will magnify
the circle of my power invincible.

“All must acknowledge my just cause of pride
and must no longer worship, in despite
of my superior birth, this deity,
a daughter of ignoble Coeus, whom
one time the great Earth would not even grant
sufficient space for travail: whom the Heavens,
the Land, the Sea together once compelled
to wander, hopeless on all hostile shores!
Throughout the world she found herself rebuffed,
till Delos, sorry for the vagrant, said,
‘Homeless you roam the lands, and I the seas!’
And even her refuge always was adrift.

“And there she bore two children, who, compared
with mine, are but as one to seven. Who
denies my fortunate condition?—Who
can doubt my future?—I am surely safe.

“The wealth of my abundance is too strong
for Fortune to assail me. Let her rage
despoil me of large substance; yet so much
would still be mine, for I have risen above
the blight of apprehension. But, suppose
a few of my fair children should be taken!
Even so deprived, I could not be reduced
to only two, as this Latona, who,
might quite as well be childless.—Get you gone
from this insensate sacrifice. Make haste!
Cast off the wreathing laurels from your brows!”

They plucked the garlands from their hair, and left
the sacrifice, obedient to her will,
although in gentle murmurs they adored
the goddess Niobe had so defamed.

Latona, furious when she heard the speech,
flew swiftly to the utmost peak of Cynthus,
and spoke to her two children in these words:

“Behold your mother, proud of having borne
such glorious children! I will yield
prestige before no goddess—save alone
immortal Juno! I have been debased,
and driven for all ages from my own—
my altars, unto me devoted long,
and so must languish through eternity,
unless by you sustained. Nor is this all;.
That daughter of Tantalus, bold Niobe,
has added curses to her evil deeds,
and with a tongue as wicked as her sire's,
has raised her base-born children over mine.
Has even called me childless! A sad fate
more surely should be hers! Oh, I entreat”—

But Phoebus answered her, “No more complaint
is necessary, for it only serves
to hinder the swift sequel of her doom.”
And with the same words Phoebe answered her.
And having spoken, they descended through
the shielding shadows of surrounding clouds,
and hovered on the citadel of Cadmus.

There, far below them, was a level plain
which swept around those walls; where trampling steeds,
with horny hoofs, and multitudinous wheels,
had beaten a wide track. And on the field
the older sons of Niobe on steeds
emblazoned with bright dyes and harness rich
with studded gold were circling.—One of these,
Ismenus, first-born of his mother, while
controlling his fleet courser's foaming mouth,
cried out, “Ah wretched me!” A shaft had pierced
the middle of his breast; and as the reins
dropped slowly on the rapid courser's neck,
his drooping form fell forward to the ground.

Not far from him, his brother, Sipylus,
could hear the whistling of a fatal shaft,
and in his fright urged on the plunging steed:
as when the watchful pilot, sensible
of storms approaching, crowds on sail,
hoping to catch a momentary breeze,
so fled he, urging an impetuous flight;
but, while he fled the shaft, unerring, flew;
transfixed him with its quivering death; struck where
the neck supports the head and the sharp point
protruded from his throat. In his swift flight,
as he was leaning forward, he was struck;
and, rolling over the wild horse's neck
pitched to the ground, and stained it with his blood.

Unhappy Phaedimus, and Tantalus,
(So named from his maternal grandsire) now
had finished coursing on the track, and smooth.
Shining with oil, were wrestling in the field;
and while those brothers struggled—breast to breast—
another arrow, hurtling from the sky,
pierced them together, just as they were clinched.
The mingled sound that issued from two throats
was like a single groan. Convulsed with pain,
the wrestlers fell together on the ground,
where, stricken with a double agony,
rolling their eyeballs, they sobbed out their lives.

Alphenor saw them die—beating his breast
in agony—ran to lift in his arms
their lifeless bodies cold—while doing this
he fell upon them. Phoebus struck him so,
piercing his midriff in a vital part,
with fatal shot, which, when he pulled it forth,
dragged with its barb a torn clot of his lung—
his blood and life poured out upon the air.

The youthful Damasicthon next was struck,
not only once; an arrow pierced his leg
just where the sinews of the thigh begin,
and as he turned and stooped to pluck it out,
another keen shaft shot into his neck,
up to the fletching.—The blood drove it out,
and spouted after it in crimson jets.

Then, Ilioneus, last of seven sons,
lifted his unavailing arms in prayer,
and cried, “O Universal Deities,
gods of eternal heaven, spare my life!”—
Besought too late, Apollo of the Bow,
could not prevail against the deadly shaft,
already on its way: and yet his will,
compellant, acted to retard its flight,
so that it cut no deeper than his heart.

The rumors of an awful tragedy,—
the wailings of sad Niobe's loved friends,—
the terror of her grieving relatives,—
all gave some knowledge of her sudden loss:
but so bewildered and enraged her mind,
that she could hardly realize the Gods
had privilege to dare against her might.
Nor would she, till her lord, Amphion, thrust
his sword deep in his breast, by which his life
and anguish both were ended in dark night.

Alas, proud Niobe, once haughty queen!
Proud Niobe who but so lately drove
her people from Latona's altars, while,
moving majestic through the midst, she hears
their plaudits, now so bitterly debased,
her meanest enemy may pity her!—

She fell upon the bodies of her sons,
and in a frenzy of maternal grief,
kissed their unfeeling lips. Then unto Heaven
with arms accusing, railed upon her foe:
“Glut your revenge! Latona, glut your rage!
Yea, let my lamentations be your joy!
Go—satiate your flinty heart with death!
Are not my seven sons all dead? Am I
not waiting to be carried to my grave?—
exult and triumph, my victorious foe!
Victorious? Nay!—Much more remains to me
in all my utmost sorrow, than to you,
you gloater upon vengeance—Undismayed,
I stand victorious in my Field of Woe!”

no sooner had she spoken, than the cord
twanged from the ever-ready bow; and all
who heard the fatal sound, again were filled
with fear,—save Niobe, in misery bold,—
defiant in misfortune.—Clothed in black,
the sisters of the stricken brothers stood,
with hair disheveled, by the funeral biers.

And one while plucking from her brother's heart
a shaft, swooned unto death, fell on her face—
on her dear brother's corpse. Another girl,
while she consoled her mother, suddenly,
was stricken with an unseen, deadly wound;
and doubled in convulsions, closed her lips,
tight held them, till both breath and life were lost.
Another, vainly rushed away from death—
she met it, and pitched head-first to the ground;
and still another died upon her corse,
another vainly sought a secret death,
and, then another slipped beyond's life's edge.
So, altogether, six of seven died—
each victim, strickened in a different way.

One child remained. Then in a frenzy-fear
the mother, as she covered her with all
her garments and her body, wailed—“Oh, leave
me this one child! the youngest of them all!
My darling daughter—only leave me one!”
But even while she was entreating for its life—
the life was taken from her only child.

Childless— she crouched beside her slaughtered sons,
her lifeless daughters, and her husband's corpse.
The breeze not even moved her fallen hair,
a chill of marble spread upon her flesh,
beneath her pale, set brows, her eyes moved not,
her bitter tongue turned stiff in her hard jaws,
her lovely veins congealed, and her stiff neck
and rigid hands could neither bend nor move.—
her limbs and body, all were changed to stone.

Yet ever would she weep: and as her tears
were falling she was carried from the place,
enveloped in a storm and mighty wind,
far, to her native land, where fixed upon
a mountain summit she dissolves in tears,—
and to this day the marble drips with tears.
All men and women, after this event,
feared to incur Latona's fateful wrath,
and worshiped with more zeal the Deity,
mother of twins.—And, as it is the way
of men to talk of many other things
after a strong occurrence, they recalled
what other deeds the goddess had performed;—
and one of them recited this event:

'Twas in the ancient days of long-ago,—
some rustics, in the fertile fields of Lycia,
heedless, insulted the goddess to their harm:—
perhaps you've never heard of this event,
because those country clowns were little known.
The event was wonderful, but I can vouch
the truth of it. I visited the place
and I have seen the pool of water, where
happened the miracle I now relate.

My good old father, then advanced in years,
incapable of travel, ordered me
to fetch some cattle—thoroughbreds—from there,
and had secured a Lycian for my guide,

as I traversed the pastures, with the man,
it chanced, I saw an ancient altar,—grimed
with sacrificial ashes—in the midst
of a large pool, with sedge and reeds around,
a-quiver in the breeze. And there my guide
stood on the marge, and with an awe-struck voice
began to whisper, “Be propitious, hear
my supplications, and forget not me!”

And I, observing him, echoed the words,
“Forget not me!” which, having done, I turned
to him and said, “Whose altar can this be?
Perhaps a sacred altar of the Fauns,
or of the Naiads, or a native God?”

To which my guide replied, “Young man, such Gods
may not be worshiped at this altar. She
whom once the royal Juno drove away
to wander a harsh world, alone permits
this altar to be used: that goddess whom
the wandering Isle of Delos, at the time
it drifted as the foam, almost refused
a refuge.

There Latona, as she leaned
against a palm-tree—and against the tree
most sacred to Minerva, brought forth twins,
although their harsh step-mother, Juno, strove
to interfere.—And from the island forced
to fly by jealous Juno, on her breast
she bore her children, twin Divinities.

At last, outwearied with the toil, and parched
with thirst—long-wandering in those heated days
over the arid land of Lycia, where
was bred the dire Chimaera— at the time
her parching breasts were drained, she saw this pool
of crystal water, shimmering in the vale.

Some countrymen were there to gather reeds,
and useful osiers, and the bulrush, found
with sedge in fenny pools. To them approached
Latona, and she knelt upon the merge
to cool her thirst, with some refreshing water.
But those clowns forbade her and the goddess cried,
as they so wickedly opposed her need:

“Why do you so resist my bitter thirst?
The use of water is the sacred right
of all mankind, for Nature has not made
the sun and air and water, for the sole
estate of any creature; and to Her
kind bounty I appeal, although of you
I humbly beg the use of it. Not here
do I intend to bathe my wearied limbs.
I only wish to quench an urgent thirst,
for, even as I speak, my cracking lips
and mouth so parched, almost deny me words.
A drink of water will be like a draught
of nectar, giving life; and I shall owe
to you the bounty and my life renewed.—
ah, let these tender infants, whose weak arms
implore you from my bosom, but incline
your hearts to pity!” And just as she spoke,
it chanced the children did stretch out their arms
and who would not be touched to hear such words,
as spoken by this goddess, and refuse?

But still those clowns persisted in their wrong
against the goddess; for they hindered her,
and threatened with their foul, abusive tongues
to frighten her away—and, worse than all,
they even muddied with their hands and feet
the clear pool; forcing the vile, slimy dregs
up from the bottom, in a spiteful way,
by jumping up and down.—Enraged at this,
she felt no further thirst, nor would she deign
to supplicate again; but, feeling all
the outraged majesty of her high state,
she raised her hands to Heaven, and exclaimed,
“Forever may you live in that mud-pool!”

The curse as soon as uttered took effect,
and every one of them began to swim
beneath the water, and to leap and plunge
deep in the pool.—Now, up they raise their heads,
now swim upon the surface, now they squat
themselves around the marshy margent, now
they plump again down to the chilly deeps.
And, ever and again, with croaking throats,
indulge offensive strife upon the banks,
or even under water, boom abuse.

Their ugly voices cause their bloated necks
to puff out; and their widened jaws are made
still wider in the venting of their spleen.

Their backs, so closely fastened to their heads,
make them appear as if their shrunken necks
have been cut off. Their backbones are dark green;
white are their bellies, now their largest part.—

Forever since that time, the foolish frogs
muddy their own pools, where they leap and dive.
So he related how the clowns were changed
to leaping frogs; and after he was through,
another told the tale of Marsyas, in these words:

The Satyr Marsyas, when he played the flute
in rivalry against Apollo's lyre,
lost that audacious contest and, alas!
His life was forfeit; for, they had agreed
the one who lost should be the victor's prey.
And, as Apollo punished him, he cried,
“Ah-h-h! why are you now tearing me apart?
A flute has not the value of my life!”

Even as he shrieked out in his agony,
his living skin was ripped off from his limbs,
till his whole body was a flaming wound,
with nerves and veins and viscera exposed.

But all the weeping people of that land,
and all the Fauns and Sylvan Deities,
and all the Satyrs, and Olympus, his
loved pupil—even then renowned in song,
and all the Nymphs, lamented his sad fate;
and all the shepherds, roaming on the hills,
lamented as they tended fleecy flocks.

And all those falling tears, on fruitful Earth,
descended to her deepest veins, as drip
the moistening dews,—and, gathering as a fount,
turned upward from her secret-winding caves,
to issue, sparkling, in the sun-kissed air,
the clearest river in the land of Phrygia,—
through which it swiftly flows between steep banks
down to the sea: and, therefore, from his name,
'Tis called “The Marsyas” to this very day.

And after this was told, the people turned
and wept for Niobe's loved children dead,
and also, mourned Amphion, sorrow-slain.
The Theban people hated Niobe,
but Pelops, her own brother, mourned her death;
and as he rent his garment, and laid bare
his white left shoulder, you could see the part
composed of ivory.—At his birth 'twas all
of healthy flesh; but when his father cut
his limbs asunder, and the Gods restored
his life, all parts were rightly joined, except
part of one shoulder, which was wanting; so
to serve the purpose of the missing flesh,
a piece of ivory was inserted there,
making his body by such means complete.
The lords of many cities that were near,
now met together and implored their kings
to mourn with Pelops those unhappy deeds.—

The lords of Argos; Sparta and Mycenae;
and Calydon, before it had incurred
the hatred of Diana, goddess of the chase;
fertile Orchomenus and Corinth, great
in wealth of brass; Patrae and fierce Messena;
Cleone, small; and Pylus and Troezen,
not ruled by Pittheus then,—and also, all
the other cities which are shut off by
the Isthmus there dividing by its two seas,
and all the cities which are seen from there.

What seemed most wonderful, of all those towns
Athens alone was wanting, for a war
had gathered from the distant seas, a host
of savage warriors had alarmed her walls,
and hindered her from mourning for the dead.

Now Tereus, then the mighty king of Thrace,
came to the aid of Athens as defense
from that fierce horde; and there by his great deeds
achieved a glorious fame. Since his descent
was boasted from the mighty Gradivus,
and he was gifted with enormous wealth,
Pandion, king of Athens, gave to him
in sacred wedlock his dear daughter, Procne.

But Juno, guardian of the sacred rites
attended not, nor Hymenaeus, nor
the Graces. But the Furies snatched up brands
from burning funeral pyres, and brandished them
as torches. They prepared the nuptial couch,—
a boding owl flew over the bride's room,
and then sat silently upon the roof.

With such bad omens Tereus married her,
sad Procne, and those omens cast a gloom
on all the household till the fateful birth
of their first born. All Thrace went wild with joy—
and even they, rejoicing, blessed the Gods,
when he, the little Itys, saw the light;
and they ordained each year their wedding day,
and every year the birthday of their child,
should be observed with festival and song:
so the sad veil of fate conceals from us
our future woes.

Now Titan had drawn forth
the changing seasons through five autumns, when,
in gentle accents, Procne spoke these words:
“My dearest husband, if you love me, let
me visit my dear sister, or consent
that she may come to us and promise her
that she may soon return. If you will but
permit me to enjoy her company
my heart will bless you as I bless the Gods.”

At once the monarch ordered his long ships
to launch upon the sea; and driven by sail,
and hastened by the swiftly sweeping oars,
they entered the deep port of Athens, where
he made fair landing on the fortified
Piraeus. There, when time was opportune
to greet his father-in-law and shake his hand,
they both exchanged their wishes for good health,
and Tereus told the reason why he came.

He was relating all his wife's desire.
Promising Philomela's safe return
from a brief visit, when Philomela appeared
rich in her costly raiment, yet more rich
in charm and beauty, just as if a fair
Dryad or Naiad should be so attired,
appearing radiant, from dark solitudes.

As if someone should kindle whitening corn
or the dry leaves, or hay piled in a stack;
so Tereus, when he saw the beautiful
and blushing virgin, was consumed with love.

Her modest beauty was a worthy cause
of worthy love; but by his heritage,
derived from a debasing clime, his love
was base; and fires unholy burned within
from his own lawless nature, just as fierce
as are the habits of his evil race.

In the wild frenzy of his wicked heart,
he thought he would corrupt her trusted maid,
her tried attendants, and corrupt even
her virtue with large presents: he would waste
his kingdom in the effort.—He prepared
to seize her at the risk of cruel war.
And he would do or dare all things to feed
his raging flame.—He could not brook delay.

With most impassioned words he begged for her,
pretending he gave voice to Procne's hopes.—
his own desire made him wax eloquent,
as often as his words exceeded bounds,
he pleaded he was uttering Procne's words.

His hypocritic eyes were filled with tears,
as though they represented her desire—
and, O you Gods above, what devious ways
are harbored in the hearts of mortals! Through
his villainous desire he gathered praise,
and many lauded him for the great love
he bore his wife.

And even Philomela
desires her own undoing; and with fond
embraces nestles to her father, while
she pleads for his consent, that she may go
to visit her dear sister.—Tereus viewed
her pretty pleading, and in his hot heart,
imagined he was then embracing her;
and as he saw her kiss her father's lips,
her arms around his neck, it seemed that each
caress was his; and so his fire increased.
He even wished he were her father; though,
if it were so, his passion would no less
be impious.—Overcome at last by these
entreaties, her kind father gave consent.
Greatly she joyed and thanked him for her own
misfortune. She imagined a success,
instead of all the sorrow that would come.

The day declining, little of his toil
remained for Phoebus. Now his flaming steeds
were beating with their hoofs the downward slope
of high Olympus; and the regal feast
was set before the guests, and flashing wine
was poured in golden vessels, and the feast
went merrily, until the satisfied
assembly sought in gentle sleep their rest.

Not so, the love-hot Tereus, king of Thrace,
who, sleepless, imaged in his doting mind
the form of Philomela, recalled the shape
of her fair hands, and in his memory
reviewed her movements. And his flaming heart
pictured her beauties yet unseen.—He fed
his frenzy on itself, and could not sleep.

Fair broke the day; and now the ancient king,
Pandion, took his son-in-law's right hand
to bid farewell; and, as he wept,
commended his dear daughter, Philomela,
unto his guarding care. “And in your care,
my son-in-law, I trust my daughter's health.
Good reason, grounded on my love, compels
my sad approval. You have begged for her,
and both my daughters have persuaded me.
Wherefore, I do entreat you and implore
your honor, as I call upon the Gods,
that you will ever shield her with the love
of a kind father and return her safe,
as soon as may be—my last comfort given
to bless my doting age. And all delay
will agitate and vex my failing heart.

“And, O my dearest daughter, Philomela,
if you have any love for me, return
without too long delay and comfort me,
lest I may grieve; for it is quite enough
that I should suffer while your sister stays away.”

The old king made them promise, and he kissed
his daughter, while he wept. Then did he join
their hands in pledge of their fidelity,
and, as he gave his blessing, cautioned them
to kiss his absent daughter and her son
for his dear sake. Then as he spoke a last
farewell, his trembling voice was filled with sobs.
And he could hardly speak;—for a great fear
from some vague intuition of his mind,
surged over him, and he was left forlorn.

So soon as Philomela was safe aboard
the painted ship and as the sailors urged
the swiftly gliding keel across the deep
and the dim land fast-faded from their view,
then Tereus, in exultant humor, thought,
“Now all is well, the object of my love
sails with me while the sailors ply the oars.”,

He scarcely could control his barbarous
desire—with difficulty stayed his lust,
he followed all her actions with hot eyes. —
So, when the ravenous bird of Jupiter
has caught with crooked talons the poor hare,
and dropped it—ruthless,—in his lofty nest,
where there is no escape, his cruel eyes
gloat on the victim he anticipates.

And now, as Tereus reached his journey's end,
they landed from the travel-wearied ship,
safe on the shores of his own kingdom. Then
he hastened with the frightened Philomela
into most wild and silent solitudes
of an old forest; where, concealed among
deep thickets a forbidding old house stood:
there he immured the pale and trembling maid,
who, vainly in her fright, began to call
upon her absent sister,—and her tears
implored his pity. His obdurate mind
could not be softened by such piteous cries;
but even while her agonizing screams
implored her sister's and her father's aid,
and while she vainly called upon the Gods,
he overmastered her with brutal force.—

The poor child trembled as a frightened lamb,
which, just delivered from the frothing jaws
of a gaunt wolf, dreads every moving twig.
She trembled as a timid injured dove,
(her feathers dripping with her own life-blood)
that dreads the ravening talons of a hawk
from which some fortune has delivered her.

But presently, as consciousness returned,
she tore her streaming hair and beat her arms,
and, stretching forth her hands in frenzied grief,
cried out, “Oh, barbarous and brutal wretch!
Unnatural monster of abhorrent deeds!
Could not my anxious father's parting words,
nor his foreboding tears restrain your lust?
Have you no slight regard for your chaste wife,
my dearest sister, and are you without
all honor, so to spoil virginity
now making me invade my sister's claim,
you have befouled the sacred fount of life,—
you are a lawless bond of double sin!

“Oh, this dark punishment was not my due!
Come, finish with my murder your black deed,
so nothing wicked may remain undone.
But oh, if you had only slaughtered me
before your criminal embrace befouled
my purity, I should have had a shade
entirely pure, and free from any stain!
Oh, if there is a Majesty in Heaven,
and if my ruin has not wrecked the world,
then, you shall suffer for this grievous wrong
and time shall hasten to avenge my wreck.

“I shall declare your sin before the world,
and publish my own shame to punish you!
And if I'm prisoned in the solitudes,
my voice will wake the echoes in the wood
and move the conscious rocks. Hear me, O Heaven!
And let my imprecations rouse the Gods—
ah-h-h, if there can be a god in Heaven!”

Her cries aroused the dastard tyrant's wrath,
and frightened him, lest ever his foul deed
might shock his kingdom: and, roused at once
by rage and guilty fear; he seized her hair,
forced her weak arms against her back, and bound
them fast with brazen chains, then drew his sword.

When she first saw his sword above her head.
Flashing and sharp, she wished only for death,
and offered her bare throat: but while she screamed,
and, struggling, called upon her father's name,
he caught her tongue with pincers, pitiless,

And cut it with his sword.—The mangled root
still quivered, but the bleeding tongue itself,
fell murmuring on the blood-stained floor. As the tail
of a slain snake still writhes upon the ground,
so did the throbbing tongue; and, while it died,
moved up to her, as if to seek her feet.—
And, it is said that after this foul crime,
the monster violated her again.

And after these vile deeds, that wicked king
returned to Procne, who, when she first met
her brutal husband, anxiously inquired
for tidings of her sister; but with sighs
and tears, he told a false tale of her death,
and with such woe that all believed it true.

Then Procne, full of lamentation, took
her royal robe, bordered with purest gold,
and putting it away, assumed instead
garments of sable mourning; and she built
a noble sepulchre, and offered there
her pious gifts to an imagined shade;—
lamenting the sad death of her who lived.

A year had passed by since that awful date—
the sun had coursed the Zodiac's twelve signs.
But what could Philomela hope or do?
For like a jail the strong walls of the house
were built of massive stone, and guards around
prevented flight; and mutilated, she
could not communicate with anyone
to tell her injuries and tragic woe.

But even in despair and utmost grief,
there is an ingenuity which gives
inventive genius to protect from harm:
and now, the grief-distracted Philomela
wove in a warp with purple marks and white,
a story of the crime; and when 'twas done
she gave it to her one attendant there
and begged her by appropriate signs to take
it secretly to Procne. She took the web,
she carried it to Procne, with no thought
of words or messages by art conveyed.

The wife of that inhuman tyrant took
the cloth, and after she unwrapped it saw
and understood the mournful record sent.
She pondered it in silence and her tongue
could find no words to utter her despair;—
her grief and frenzy were too great for tears.—
In a mad rage her rapid mind counfounded
the right and wrong—intent upon revenge.

Since it was now the time of festival,
when all the Thracian matrons celebrate
the rites of Bacchus—every third year thus—
night then was in their secret; and at night
the slopes of Rhodope resounded loud
with clashing of shrill cymbals. So, at night
the frantic queen of Tereus left her home
and, clothed according to the well known rites
of Bacchus, hurried to the wilderness.

Her head was covered with the green vine leaves;
and from her left side native deer skin hung;
and on her shoulder rested a light spear.—
so fashioned, the revengeful Procne rushed
through the dark woods, attended by a host
of screaming followers, and wild with rage,
pretended it was Bacchus urged her forth.

At last she reached the lonely building, where
her sister, Philomela, was immured;
and as she howled and shouted “Ee-woh-ee-e!”,
She forced the massive doors; and having seized
her sister, instantly concealed her face
in ivy leaves, arrayed her in the trappings
of Bacchanalian rites. When this was done,
they rushed from there, demented, to the house
where as the Queen of Tereus, Procne dwelt.

When Philomela knew she had arrived
at that accursed house, her countenance,
though pale with grief, took on a ghastlier hue:
and, wretched in her misery and fright,
she shuddered in convulsions.—Procne took
the symbols, Bacchanalian, from her then,
and as she held her in a strict embrace
unveiled her downcast head. But she refused
to lift her eyes, and fixing her sad gaze
on vacant space, she raised her hand, instead;
as if in oath she called upon the Gods
to witness truly she had done no wrong,
but suffered a disgrace of violence.—

Lo, Procne, wild with a consuming rage,
cut short her sister's terror in these words,
“This is no time for weeping! awful deeds
demand a great revenge—take up the sword,
and any weapon fiercer than its edge!
My breast is hardened to the worst of crime
make haste with me! together let us put
this palace to the torch!

“Come, let us maim,
the beastly Tereus with revenging iron,
cut out his tongue, and quench his cruel eyes,
and hurl and burn him writhing in the flames!
Or, shall we pierce him with a grisly blade,
and let his black soul issue from deep wounds
a thousand.—Slaughter him with every death
imagined in the misery of hate!”

While Procne still was raving out such words,
Itys, her son, was hastening to his mother;
and when she saw him, her revengeful eyes
conceiving a dark punishment, she said,
“Aha! here comes the image of his father!”
She gave no other warning, but prepared
to execute a horrible revenge.

But when the tender child came up to her,
and called her “mother”, put his little arms
around her neck, and when he smiled and kissed
her often, gracious in his cunning ways,—
again the instinct of true motherhood
pulsed in her veins, and moved to pity, she
began to weep in spite of her resolve.

Feeling the tender impulse of her love
unnerving her, she turned her eyes from him
and looked upon her sister, and from her
glanced at her darling boy again. And so,
while she was looking at them both, by turns,
she said, “Why does the little one prevail
with pretty words, while Philomela stands
in silence always, with her tongue torn out?
She cannot call her sister, whom he calls
his mother! Oh, you daughter of Pandion,
consider what a wretch your husband is!
The wife of such a monster must be flint;
compassion in her heart is but a crime.”

No more she hesitated, but as swift
as the fierce tigress of the Ganges leaps,
seizes the suckling offspring of the hind,
and drags it through the forest to its lair;
so, Procne seized and dragged the frightened boy
to a most lonely section of the house;
and there she put him to the cruel sword,
while he, aware of his sad fate, stretched forth
his little hands, and cried, “Ah, mother,—ah!—”
And clung to her—clung to her, while she struck—
her fixed eyes, maddened, glaring horribly—
struck wildly, lopping off his tender limbs.
But Philomela cut through his tender throat.

Then they together, mangled his remains,
still quivering with the remnant of his life,
and boiled a part of him in steaming pots,
that bubbled over with the dead child's blood,
and roasted other parts on hissing spits.

And, after all was ready, Procne bade
her husband, Tereus, to the loathsome feast,
and with a false pretense of sacred rites,
according to the custom of her land,
by which, but one man may partake of it,
she sent the servants from the banquet hall.—
Tereus, majestic on his ancient throne
high in imagined state, devoured his son,
and gorged himself with flesh of his own flesh—
and in his rage of gluttony called out
for Itys to attend and share the feast!

Curst with a joy she could conceal no more,
and eager to gloat over his distress,
Procne cried out,

“Inside yourself, you have
the thing that you are asking for!” — Amazed,
he looked around and called his son again:—

that instant, Philomela sprang forth—her hair
disordered, and all stained with blood of murder,
unable then to speak, she hurled the head
of Itys in his father's fear-struck face,
and more than ever longed for fitting words.

The Thracian Tereus overturned the table,
and howling, called up from the Stygian pit,
the viperous sisters. Tearing at his breast,
in miserable efforts to disgorge
the half-digested gobbets of his son,
he called himself his own child's sepulchre,
and wept the hot tears of a frenzied man.
Then with his sword he rushed at the two sisters.

Fleeing from him, they seemed to rise on wings,
and it was true, for they had changed to birds.
Then Philomela, flitting to the woods,
found refuge in the leaves: but Procne flew
straight to the sheltering gables of a roof—
and always, if you look, you can observe
the brand of murder on the swallow's breast—
red feathers from that day. And Tereus, swift
in his great agitation, and his will
to wreak a fierce revenge, himself is turned
into a crested bird. His long, sharp beak
is given him instead of a long sword,
and so, because his beak is long and sharp,
he rightly bears the name of Hoopoe.
Before the number of his years was told,
Pandion with the shades of Tartarus,
because of this, has wandered in sad dooms.
Erectheus, next in line, with mighty sway
and justice, ruled all Athens on the throne
left vacant by the good Pandion's death.
Four daughters and four sons were granted him;
and of his daughters, two were beautiful,
and one of these was wed to Cephalus,
grandson of Aeolus. — But mighty Boreas
desired the hand of Orithyia, fair
and lovable.—King Tereus and the Thracians
were then such obstacles to Boreas
the god was long kept from his dear beloved.
Although the great king (who compels the cold
north-wind) had sought with prayers to win her hand,
and urged his love in gentleness, not force.

When quite aware his wishes were disdained,
he roughly said, with customary rage
and violence: “Away with sentimental talk!

My prayers and kind intentions are despised,
but I should blame nobody but myself;
then why should I, despising my great strength,
debase myself to weakness and soft prayers?—
might is my right, and violence my strength!—
by force I drive the force of gloomy clouds.

“Tremendous actions are the wine of life!—
monarch of Violence, rolling on clouds,
I toss wide waters, and I fell huge trees—
knotted old oaks—and whirled upon ice-wings,
I scatter the light snow, and pelt the Earth
with sleet and hail! I rush through boundless voids.
My thunders rumble in the hollow clouds—
and crash upon my brothers—fire to fire!

“Possessed of daemon-rage, I penetrate,
sheer to the utmost caverns of old Earth;
and straining, up from those unfathomed deeps,
scatter the terror-stricken shades of hell;
and hurl death-dealing earthquakes through the world!

“Such are the fateful powers I should use,
and never trust entreaties to prevail,
or win my bride—Force is the law of life!”

And now impetuous Boreas, having howled
resounding words, unrolled his rustling wings—
that fan the earth and ruffle the wide sea—
and, swiftly wrapping untrod mountain peaks
in whirling mantles of far-woven dust,
thence downward hovered to the darkened world;
and, canopied in artificial night
of swarthy overshadowing wings, caught up
the trembling Orithyia to his breast:
nor did he hesitate in airy course
until his huge wings fanned the chilling winds
around Ciconian Walls.

There, she was pledged
the wife of that cold, northern king of storms;
and unto him she gave those hero twins,
endowed with wings of their immortal sire,
and graceful in their mother's form and face.

Their bird-like wings were not fledged at their birth
and those twin boys, Zetes and Calais,
at first were void of feathers and soft down.
But when their golden hair and beards were grown,
wings like an eagle's came;—and feather-down
grew golden on their cheeks: and when from youth
they entered manhood, quick they were to join
the Argonauts, who for the Golden Fleece,
sought in that first ship, ventured on the sea.

Mentioned templesIūpiterNeptūnusIūnōCerēsDiāna

Book VII

Over the storm-tossed waves, the Argonauts
had sailed in Argo, their long ship to where
King Phineus, needy in his old age, reigned—
deprived of sight and feeble. When the sons
of Boreas had landed on the shore,
and seen the Harpies snatching from the king
his nourishment, befouling it with beaks
obscene, they drove those human-vultures thence.

And having suffered hardships and great toils,
after the day they rescued the sad king
from the vile Harpies, those twin valiant youths,
Zetes and Calais came with their chief,
the mighty Jason, where the Phasis flows.

From the green margin of that river, all
the crew of Argonauts, by Jason led,
went to the king Aeetes and required
the Golden Fleece, that he received from Phryxus.
When they had bargained with him, full of wiles
he offered to restore the Golden Fleece
only to those who might to him return,
victorious from hard labors of great risk.

Medea, the king's daughter, near his throne,
saw Jason, leader of the Argonauts,
as he was pressing to secure a prize—
and loved at sight with a consuming flame.

Although she struggled to suppress her love,
unable to restrain herself, she said,
“In vain I've striven to subdue my heart:
some god it must be, which I cannot tell,
is working to destroy my hapless life;
or else it is the burning flame of love
that in me rages. If it is not love,
why do the mandates of my father seem
too harsh? They surely are too harsh. Why do
I fear that he may perish whom I have
seen only once? What is the secret cause
that I am agitated by such fears?—
It is no other than the god of Love.

“Thrust from your virgin breast such burning flames
and overcome their hot unhappiness—
if I could do so, I should be myself:
but some deluding power is holding me
helpless against my will. Desire persuades
me one way, but my reason still persuades
another way. I see a better course
and I approve, but follow its defeat. —

“O royal maiden, why are you consumed
with love for this strange man, and why are you
so willing to be carried by the nuptial ties
so far from your own country, where, indeed,
are many brave men worthy of your love?

“Whether for life or death his numbered hours
are in the mercy of the living Gods,
and that he may not suffer risk of death,
too well foreseen, now let my prayers prevail—
righteously uttered of a generous heart
without the stress of love. What wicked thing
has Jason done? His handsome person, youth,
and noble ways, would move a heart of stone.

“Have I a heart of flint, or was I born
a tigress to deny him timely aid?—
Unless I interpose, he will be slain
by the hot breath of brazen-footed bulls,
or will be slaughtered by the warriors, sprung
miraculous from earth, or will be given
to satisfy the ravenous appetite
of a huge dragon.

“Let my gloating eyes
be satiate with his dying agonies!
Let me incite the fury of these bulls!
Stir to their blood-lust mad-born sons of Earth!
Rouse up the never-sleeping dragon's rage!—
“Avert it Gods!—

“But why should I cry out
upon the Gods to save him from such wrong,
when, by my actions and my power, myself
may shield him from all evils?

“Such a course
would wreck the kingdom of my father—and by me
the wily stranger would escape from him;
and spreading to the wind his ready sails
he would forget and leave me to my fate.—
Oh, if he should forget my sacrifice,
and so prefer those who neglected him,
let him then perish in his treachery.—

“But these are idle thoughts: his countenance,
reveals innate nobility and grace,
that should dispel all fear of treachery,
and guarantee his ever-faithful heart.
The Gods will witness our united souls,
and he shall pledge his faith. Secure of it
my fear will be removed. Be ready, then—
and make a virtue of necessity:
your Jason owes himself to you; and he
must join you in true wedlock. Then you shall
be celebrated through the land of Greece,
by throngs of women, for the man you saved.

“Shall I then sail away, and so forsake
my sister, brother, father, Gods, and land
that gave me birth? My father is indeed
a stern man, and my native land is all
too barbarous; my brother is a child,—
my sister's goodwill is good help for me;
and heaven's supreme god is within my breast.

“I shall not so be leaving valued hopes,
but will be going surely to great things.
And I should gain applause from all the world,
as having saved the threatened Argonauts,
most noble of the Greeks; and in their land,
which certainly is better than my own,
become the bride of Jason, for whose love
I should not hesitate to give the world—
and in whose love the living Gods rejoice
so greatly; for his sake they would bestow
their favors on my head, and make the stars
my habitation.

“Should I hesitate
because the wreck-strewn mountains bar the way,
and clash together in the Euxine waves;
or fear Charybdis, fatal to large ships,
that sucks the deep sea in its whirling gulf
and spouts far upward, with alternate force,
or Scylla, circled with infuriate hounds
howling in rage from deep Sicilian waves?

“Safe in the shielding arms of him I love,
on Jason's bosom leaning, I shall be
borne safely over wide and hostile seas;
and in his dear embrace forget my fears—
or if for anything I suffer dread,
it will be only for the one I love.—

“Alas, Medea, this vain argument
has only furnished plausible excuse
for criminal desires, and desecrates
the marriage rite. It is a wicked thing
to think upon. Before it is too late
forget your passion and deny this guilt.”

And after she had said these words, her eyes
were opened to the prize of modesty,
chaste virtue, and a pure affection:
and Cupid, vanquished, turned away and fled.

Then, to an ancient altar of the goddess named
Hecate, Perse's daughter took her way
in the deep shadows of a forest. She
was strong of purpose now, and all the flames
of vanquished passion had died down; but when
she saw the son of Aeson, dying flames
leaped up again. Her cheeks grew red, then all
her face went pale again; as a small spark
when hid beneath the ashes, if fed by
a breath of wind grows and regains its strength,
as it is fanned to life; so now her love
that had been smoldering, and which you would
have thought was almost dead, when she had see
again his manly youth, blazed up once more.

For on that day his graceful person seemed
as glorious as a God;—and as she gazed,
and fixed her eyes upon his countenance,
her frenzy so prevailed, she was convinced
that he was not a mortal. And her eyes
were fascinated; and she could not turn
away from him. But when he spoke to her,
and promised marriage, grasping her right hand:
she answered, as her eyes suffused with tears;
“I see what I will do, and ignorance
of truth will not be my undoing now,
but love itself. By my assistance you
shall be preserved; but when preserved fulfill
your promise.”

He swore that she could trust in him.
Then by the goddess of the triple form,
Diana, Trivia, or Luna called,
and by her sacred groves and fanes, he vowed,
and by the hallowed Sun that sees all things,
and by his own adventures, and his life,—
on these the youthful Jason took his oath.—
With this she was assured and quickly gave
to him the magic herbs: he learnt their use
and full of joy withdrew into his house.

Now when the dawn had dimmed the glittering stars,
the people hastened to the sacred field
of Mars, and on the hills expectant stood.—
Arrayed in purple, and in majesty
distinguished by his ivory sceptre, sat
the king, surrounded by a multitude.
Below them on the visioned Field of Mars,
huge brazen-footed bulls were breathing forth
from adamantine nostrils living flames,
blasting the verdant herbage in their path!

As forges glowing with hot flames resound,
or as much quick-lime, burnt in earthen kilns,
crackles and hisses as if mad with rage,
sprinkled with water, liberating heat;
so their hot throats and triple-heated sides,
resounding told of pent-up fires within.

The son of Aeson went to meet them. As
he came to meet them the fierce animals
turned on him faces terrible, and sharp
horns tipped with iron, and they pawed
the dusty earth with cloven feet, and filled
the place with fiery bellowings. The Minyans
were stark with fear; he went up to the bulls
not feeling their hot breath at all, so great
the power of his charmed drugs; and while he
was stroking their down-hanging dewlaps with
a fearless hand, he placed the yoke down on
their necks and made them draw the heavy plow,
and cut through fields that never felt the steel
before. The Colchians were amazed and silent;
but the loud shouting of the Minyans
increased their hero's courage. Taking then
the serpent's teeth out of a brazen helmet
he sowed them broadcast in the new-plowed field.

The moist earth softened these seeds that were steeped
in virulent poison and the teeth swelled up
and took new forms. And just as in its mother
an infant gradually assumes the form
of man, and is perfected through all parts
within, and does not come forth to the light
till fully formed; so, when the forms of men
had been completed in the womb of earth
made pregnant, they rose up from it,
and what is yet more wonderful, each one
clashed weapons that had been brought forth with him.

When his companions saw the warriors turn
as if with one accord, to hurl their spears,
sharp-pointed, at the head of Jason, fear
unnerved the boldest and their courage failed.
So, too, the maid whose sorcery had saved
him from much danger, when she saw the youth
encompassed by those raging enemies,
and he alone against so many—struck
with sudden panic, she turned ashen white,
her bloodless cheeks were blanched; and chilled with fear
she wilted to the ground; and lest the herbs,
so lately given him, might fail his need
she added incantations and invoked
mysterious arts. While she protected him

He seized upon a heavy stone, and hurled
it in the midst of his new enemies—
distracted by this cast, and murderous,
they turned from him, and clashing their new arms,
those earth-born brothers fought among themselves
till all were slaughtered in blood-thirsty strife.

Gladly the Greeks acclaimed him conqueror,
and pressed around him for the first embrace.
Then, too, Medea, barbarous Colchian maid,
although her modesty restrained her heart,
eagerly longed to fold him in her arms,
but careful of her good name, held aloof,—
rejoicing in deep, silent love; and she
acknowledged to the Gods her mighty gift
of incantations.

But the dragon, still
alert,—magnificent and terrible
with gorgeous crest and triple tongue, and fangs
barbed as a javelin, guards the Golden Fleece:
and Jason can obtain that quest only
if slumber may seal up the monster's eyes.—

Jason, successful, sprinkled on his crest
Lethean juices of a magic herb,
and then recited thrice the words which bring
deep slumber, potent words which would becalm
the storm-tossed ocean, and would stop the flow
of the most rapid rivers of our earth:
and slowly slumber sealed the dragon's eyes.

While that great monster slept, the hero took
the Golden Fleece; and proudly sailed away
bearing his treasure and the willing maid,
(whose aid had saved him) to his native port
Iolcus—victorious with the Argonauts.
Now when the valiant Argonauts returned
to Thessaly, their happy relatives,
fathers and mothers, praised the living Gods;
and with their hallowed gifts enhanced the flames
with precious incense; and they offered Jove
a sacred bullock, rich with gilded horns.

But Jason's father, Aeson, came not down
rejoicing to behold his son, for now
worn out with many years, he waited death.
And Jason to Medea grieving said:

“Dearest, to whom my life and love are due,
although your kindness has been great to me,
and you have granted more than I should ask,
yet one thing more I beg of you; if your
enchantments can accomplish my desire,
take from my life some years that I should live
and add them to my father's ending days.”—
And as he spoke he could not check his tears.

Medea, moved by his affection, thought
how much less she had grieved for her loved sire:
and she replied:—“A wicked thing you ask!
Can I be capable of using you
in such a manner as to take your life
and give it to another? Ask not me
a thing so dreadful! May the Gods forbid!—
I will endeavor to perform for you
a task much greater. By the powers of Night
I will most certainly return to him
the lost years of your father, but must not
deprive you of your own. — Oh grant the power,
great goddess of the triple form, that I
may fail not to accomplish this great deed!”

Three nights were wanting for the moon to join
her circling horns and form a perfect orb.
When these were passed, the rounded light shone full
and bright upon the earth.—Through the still night
alone, Medea stole forth from the house
with feet bare, and in flowing garment clothed—
her long hair unadorned and not confined.
Deep slumber has relaxed the world, and all
that's living, animals and birds and men,
and even the hedges and the breathing leaves
are still—and motionless the laden air.

Only the stars are twinkling, and to them
she looks and beckons with imploring hands.
Now thrice around she paces, and three times
besprinkles her long hair with water dipt
from crystal streams, which having done
she kneels a moment on the cold, bare ground,
and screaming three times calls upon the Night,—

“O faithful Night, regard my mysteries!
O golden-lighted Stars! O softly-moving Moon—
genial, your fire succeeds the heated day!
O Hecate! grave three-faced queen of these
charms of enchanters and enchanters, arts!
O fruitful Earth, giver of potent herbs!
O gentle Breezes and destructive Winds!
You Mountains, Rivers, Lakes and sacred Groves,
and every dreaded god of silent Night!
Attend upon me!—

“When my power commands,
the rivers turn from their accustomed ways
and roll far backward to their secret springs!
I speak—and the wild, troubled sea is calm,
and I command the waters to arise!
The clouds I scatter—and I bring the clouds;
I smooth the winds and ruffle up their rage;
I weave my spells and I recite my charms;
I pluck the fangs of serpents, and I move
the living rocks and twist the rooted oaks;
I blast the forests. Mountains at my word
tremble and quake; and from her granite tombs
the liberated ghosts arise as Earth
astonished groans! From your appointed ways,
O wonder-working Moon, I draw you down
against the magic-making sound of gongs
and brazen vessels of Temesa's ore;
I cast my spells and veil the jeweled rays
of Phoebus' wain, and quench Aurora's fires.

“At my command you tamed the flaming bulls
which long disdained to bend beneath the yoke,
until they pressed their necks against the plows;
and, subject to my will, you raised up war
till the strong company of dragon-birth
were slaughtered as they fought amongst themselves;
and, last, you lulled asleep the warden's eyes—
guards of the Golden Fleece—till then awake
and sleeping never—so, deceiving him,
you sent the treasure to the Grecian cities!

“Witness my need of super-natured herbs,
elixirs potent to renew the years of age,
giving the bloom of youth.—You shall not fail
to grant me this; for not in vain the stars
are flashing confirmation; not in vain
the flying dragons, harnessed by their necks,
from skies descending bring my chariot down.”

A chariot, sent from heaven, came to her—
and soon as she had stroked the dragons' necks,
and shaken in her hands the guiding reins—
as soon as she had mounted, she was borne
quickly above, through unresisting air.
And, sailing over Thessaly, she saw
the vale of Tempe, where the level soil
is widely covered with a crumbling chalk—
she turned her dragons towards new regions there:
and she observed the herbs by Ossa born,
the weeds on lofty Pelion, Othrys, Pindus
and vast Olympus—and from here she plucked
the needed roots, or there, the blossoms clipped
all with a moon-curved sickle made of brass—
many the wild weeds by Apidanus,
as well as blue Amphrysus' banks, she chose,
and not escaped Enipeus from her search;
Peneian stretches and Spercheian banks
all yielded what she chose:—and Boebe's shore
where sway the rushes; and she plucked up grass,
a secret grass, from fair Euboean fields

life-giving virtues in their waving blades,
as yet unknown for transformation wrought
on Glaucus.

All those fields she visited,
with ceaseless diligence in quest of charms,
nine days and nine nights sought strong herbs,
and the swift dragons with their active wings,
failed not to guide the chariot where she willed—
until they reached her home. The dragons then
had not been even touched by anything,
except the odor of surrounding herbs,
and yet they sloughed their skins, the growth of years.

She would not cross the threshold of her home
nor pass its gates; but, standing in the field,
alone beneath the canopy of Heaven,
she shunned all contact with her husband, while
she built up from the ever-living turf
two altars, one of which upon the right
to Hecate was given, but the one
upon the left was sacred then to you,
O Hebe, goddess of eternal youth!

Festooning woodland boughs and sweet vervain
adorned these altars, near by which she dug
as many trenches. Then, when all was done,
she slaughtered a black ram, and sprinkled with blood
the thirsty trenches; after which she poured
from rich carchesian goblets generous wine
and warm milk, grateful to propitious Gods—
the Deities of earth on whom she called—
entreating, as she did so, Pluto, lord
of ghostly shades, and ravished Proserpine,
that they should not, in undue haste,
deprive her patient's aged limbs of life.

When certain she compelled the God's regard,
assured her incantations and long prayers
were both approved and heard, she bade her people
bring out the body of her father-in-law—
old Aeson's worn out body—and when she
had buried him in a deep slumber by
her spells, as if he were a dead man, she
then stretched him out upon a bed of herbs.

She ordered Jason and his servants thence,
and warned them not to spy upon her rites,
with eyes profane. As soon as they retired,
Medea, with disheveled hair and wild
abandon, as a Bacchanalian, paced
times three around the blazing altars, while
she dipped her torches, splintered at the top,
into the trenches, dark: with blood, and lit
the dipt ends in the sacred altar flames.
Times three she purified the ancient man
with flames, and thrice with water, and three times
with sulphur,—as the boiling mixture seethed
and bubbled in the brazen cauldron near.

And into this, acerbic juices, roots,
and flowers and seeds—from vales Hemonian—
and mixed elixirs, into which she cast
stones of strange virtue from the Orient,
and sifted sands of ebbing ocean's tide;
white hoar-frost, gathered when the moon was full,
the nauseating flesh and luckless wings
of the uncanny screech-owl, and the entrails
from a mysterious animal that changed
from wolf to man, from man to wolf again;
the scaly sloughing of a water-snake,
the medic liver of a long-lived stag,
and the hard beak and head of an old crow
which was alive nine centuries before;
these, and a thousand nameless things
the foreign sorceress prepared and mixed,
and blended all together with a branch
of peaceful olive, old and dry with years. —
And while she stirred the withered olive branch
in the hot mixture, it began to change
from brown to green; and presently put forth
new leaves, and soon was heavy with a wealth
of luscious olives.—As the ever-rising fire
threw bubbling froth beyond the cauldron's rim,
the ground was covered with fresh verdure — flowers
and all luxuriant grasses, and green plants.

Medea, when she saw this wonder took
her unsheathed knife and cut the old man's throat;
then, letting all his old blood out of him
she filled his ancient veins with rich elixir.
As he received it through his lips or wound,
his beard and hair no longer white with age,
turned quickly to their natural vigor, dark
and lustrous; and his wasted form renewed,
appeared in all the vigor of bright youth,
no longer lean and sallow, for new blood
coursed in his well-filled veins.—Astonished, when
released from his deep sleep, and strong in youth,
his memory assured him, such he was
years four times ten before that day!—

Bacchus, from his celestial vantage saw
this marvel, and convinced his nurses might
then all regain their former vigor, he
pled with Medea to restore their youth.
The Colchian woman granted his request.
but so her malice might be satisfied
Medea feigned she had a quarrel with
her husband, and for safety she had fled
to Pelias. There, since the king himself
was heavy with old age, his daughters gave
her generous reception. And these girls
the shrewd Medea in a short time won,
by her false show of friendliness; and while
among the most remarkable of her
achievements she was telling how she had
rejuvenated Aeson, and she dwelt
particularly, on that strange event,
these daughters were induced to hope that by
some skill like this their father might regain
his lost youth also. And they begged of her
this boon, persuading her to name the price;
no matter if it was large. She did not
reply at once and seemed to hesitate,
and so she held their fond minds in a deep
suspense by her feigned meditation. When
she had at length declared she would restore
his youth, she said to them: “That you may have
strong confidence in this my promised boon,
the oldest leader of your flock of sheep shall be
changed to a lamb again by my prized drugs.”

Straightway a wooly ram, worn out with length
of untold years was brought, his great horns curved
around his hollow temples. After she
had cut his scrawny throat with her sharp knife
Thessalian, barely staining it with his
thin blood, Medea plunged his carcass in
a bronze-made kettle, throwing in it at
the same time juices of great potency.
These made his body shrink and burnt away
his two horns, and with horns his years. And now
thin bleating was heard from within the pot;
and even while they wondered at the sound,
a lamb jumped out and frisking, ran away
to find some udder with its needed milk.

Amazed the daughters looked on and, now that
these promises had been performed, they urged
more eagerly their first request. Three times
Phoebus unyoked his steeds after their plunge
in Ebro's stream, and on the fourth night stars
shown brilliant on the dark foil of the sky,
and then the treacherous daughter of Aeetes
set some clear water over a hot fire
and put in it herbs of no potency.
And now a death-like sleep held the king down,
his body all relaxed, and with the king
his guards, a sleep which incantations with
the potency of magic words had given.

The sad king's daughters, as they had been bid,
were in his room, and with Medea stood
around his bed. “Why do you hesitate,”
Medea said. “You laggards, come and draw
your swords; let out his old blood that
I may refill his empty veins again
with young blood. In your hands your father's life
and youth are resting. You, his daughters, must
have love for him, and if the hopes you have
are not all vain, come, do your duty by
your father; drive out old age at the point
of your good weapons; and let out his blood
enfeebled—cure him with the stroke of iron.”

Spurred on by these words, as each one of them
was filial she became the leader in
the most unfilial act, and that she might
not be most wicked did the wicked deed.
Not one could bear to see her own blows, so
they turned their eyes away; and every face
averted so, they blindly struck him with
their cruel hands. The old man streaming with
his blood, still raised himself on elbow, and
half mangled tried to get up from his bed;
with all those swords around him, he stretched out
his pale arms and he cried: “What will you do,
my daughters? What has armed you to the death
of your loved father?” Their wrong courage left
them, and their hands fell. When he would have said
still more, Medea cut his throat and plunged
his mangled body into boiling water.
Only because her winged dragons sailed
swiftly with her up to the lofty sky,
escaped Medea punishment for this
unheard of crime.

Her chariot sailed above
embowered Pelion — long the lofty home
of Chiron—over Othrys, and the vale
made famous where Cerambus met his fate.
Cerambus, by the aid of nymphs, from there
was wafted through the air on wings, when earth
was covered by the overwhelming sea—
and so escaped Deucalion's flood, uncrowned.

She passed by Pittane upon the left,
with its huge serpent-image of hard stone,
and also passed the grove called Ida's, where
the stolen bull was changed by Bacchus' power
into a hunted stag—in that same vale
Paris lies buried in the sand; and over fields
where Mera warning harked, Medea flew;
over the city of Eurypylus
upon the Isle of Cos, whose women wore
the horns of cattle when from there had gone
the herd of Hercules; and over Rhodes
beloved of Phoebus, where Telchinian tribes
dwelt, whose bad eyes corrupting power shot forth;—
Jove, utterly despising, thrust them deep
beneath his brother's waves; over the walls
of old Carthaea, where Alcidamas
had seen with wonder a tame dove arise
from his own daughter's body.

And she saw
the lakes of Hyrie in Teumesia's Vale,
by swans frequented—There to satisfy
his love for Cycnus, Phyllius gave
two living vultures: shell for him subdued
a lion, and delivered it to him;
and mastered a great bull, at his command;
but when the wearied Phyllius refused
to render to his friend the valued bull.
Indignant, the youth said, “You shall regret
your hasty words;” which having said, he leaped
from a high precipice, as if to death;
but gliding through the air, on snow-white wings,
was changed into a swan—Dissolved in tears,
his mother Hyrie knew not he was saved;
and weeping, formed the lake that bears her name.

And over Pleuron, where on trembling wings
escaped the mother Combe from her sons,
Medea flew; and over the far isle
Calauria, sacred to Latona.—She
beheld the conscious fields whose lawful king,
together with his queen were changed to birds.

Upon her right Cyllene could be seen;
there Menephon, degraded as a beast,
outraged his mother. In the distance, she
beheld Cephisius, who lamented long
his hapless grandson, by Apollo changed
into a bloated sea-calf. And she saw
the house where king Eumelus mourned the death
of his aspiring son.—Borne on the wings
of her enchanted dragons, she arrived
at Corinth, whose inhabitants, 'tis said,
from many mushrooms, watered by the rain
sprang into being.

There she spent some years.
But after the new wife had been burnt by
the Colchian witchcraft and two seas
had seen the king's own palace all aflame,
then, savagely she drew her sword, and bathed
it in the blood of her own infant sons;
by which atrocious act she was revenged;
and she, a wife and mother, fled the sword
of her own husband, Jason.
On the wings
of her enchanted Titan Dragons borne,
she made escape, securely, nor delayed
until she entered the defended walls
of great Minerva's city, at the hour
when aged Periphas — transformed by Jove,
together with his queen, on eagle wings
flew over its encircling walls: with whom
the guilty Halcyone, skimming seas
safely escaped, upon her balanced wings.

And after these events, Medea went
to Aegeus, king of Athens, where she found
protection from her enemies for all
this evil done. With added wickedness
Aegeus, after that, united her
to him in marriage.—
All unknown to him
came Theseus to his kingly court.—Before
the time his valor had established peace
on all the isthmus, raved by dual seas.

Medea, seeking his destruction, brewed
the juice of aconite, infesting shores
of Scythia, where, 'tis fabled, the plant grew
on soil infected by Cerberian teeth.

There is a gloomy entrance to a cave,
that follows a declivitous descent:
there Hercules with chains of adamant
dragged from the dreary edge of Tartarus
that monster-watch-dog, Cerberus, which, vain
opposing, turned his eyes aslant from light—
from dazzling day. Delirious, enraged,
that monster shook the air with triple howls;
and, frothing, sprinkled as it raved, the fields,
once green—with spewing of white poison-foam.
And this, converted into plants, sucked up
a deadly venom with the nourishment
of former soils,—from which productive grew
upon the rock, thus formed, the noxious plant;
by rustics, from that cause, named aconite.

Medea worked on Aegeus to present
his own son, Theseus, with a deadly cup
of aconite; prevailing by her art
so that he deemed his son an enemy.

Theseus unwittingly received the cup,
but just before he touched it to his lips,
his father recognized the sword he wore,
for, graven on its ivory hilt was wrought
a known device—the token of his race.
Astonished, Aegeus struck the poison-cup
from his devoted son's confiding lips.
Medea suddenly escaped from death,
in a dark whirlwind her witch-singing raised.
Recoiling from such utter wickedness,
rejoicing that his son escaped from death,
the grateful father kindled altar-fires,
and gave rich treasure to the living Gods. —
He slaughtered scores of oxen, decked with flowers
and gilded horns. The sun has never shone
upon a day more famous in that land,
for all the elders and the common folk
united in festivities,—with wine
inspiring wit and song;—“O you,” they sang,

“Immortal Theseus, victory was yours!
Did you not slaughter the huge bull of Crete?

“Yes, you did slay the boar of Cromyon —
where now the peasant unmolested plows;

“And Periphetes, wielder of the club,
was worsted when he struggled with your strength;

“And fierce Procrustes, matched with you
beside the rapid river, met his death;

“And even Cercyon, in Eleusis lost
his wicked life—inferior to your might;

“And Sinis, a monstrosity of strength,
who bent the trunks of trees, and used his might

“Against the world for everything that's wrong.
For evil, he would force down to the earth,

“Pine tops to shoot men's bodies through the air.
Even the road to Megara is safe,

“For you did hurl the robber Scyron,—sheer—
over the cliff. Both land and sea denied

“His bones a resting place—as tossed about
they changed into the cliffs that bear his name.

“How can we tell the number of your deeds,—
deeds glorious, that now exceed your years!

“For you, brave hero, we give public thanks
and prayers; to you we drain our cups of wine!”

And all the palace rings with happy songs,
and with the grateful prayers of all the people.
And sorrow in that city is not known.—
But pleasure always is alloyed with grief,
and sorrow mingles in the joyous hour.

While the king Aegeus and his son rejoiced,
Minos prepared for war. He was invincible
in men and ships—and stronger in his rage
to wreak due vengeance on the king who slew
his son Androgeus. But first he sought
some friends to aid his warfare; and he scoured
the sea with a swift fleet—which was his strength.
Anaphe and Astypalaea, both
agreed to join his cause—the first one moved
by promises, the second by his threats.
Level Myconus and the chalky fields
of Cimolus agreed to aid, and Syros
covered with wild thyme, level Seriphos,
Paros of marble cliffs, and that place which
Arne the impious Siphnian had betrayed,
who having got the gold which in her greed
she had demanded, was changed to a bird
which ever since that day imagines gold
its chief delight—a black-foot black-winged daw.

But Oliarus, Didymae, and Tenos,
Gyaros, Andros, and Peparethos
rich in its glossy olives, gave no aid
to the strong Cretan fleet. Sailing from them
Minos went to Oenopia, known realm
of the Aeacidae.—Men of old time
had called the place Oenopia; but Aeacus
styled it Aegina from his mother's name.
At his approach an eager rabble rushed
resolved to see and know so great a man.
Telamon met him, and his brother,
younger than Telamon, and Phocus who
was third in age. Even Aeacus appeared,
slow with the weight of years, and asked him what
could be a reason for his coming there.
The ruler of a hundred cities, sighed,
as he beheld the sons of Aeacus,
for they reminded him of his lost son;—
and heavy with his sorrow, he replied:
“I come imploring you to take up arms,
and aid me in the war against my foes;
for I must give that comfort to the shade
of my misfortuned son—whose blood they shed.”

But Aeacus replied to Minos, “Nay,
it is a vain request you make, for we
are bound in strict alliance to the land
and people of Cecropia.”

Full of rage,
because he was denied, the king of Crete,
Minos, as he departed from their shores
replied, “Let such a treaty be your bane.”
And he departed with his crafty threat,
believing it expedient not to waste
his power in wars until the proper time.

Before the ships of Crete had disappeared,
before the mist and blue of waves concealed
their fading outlines from the anxious throng
which gathered on Oenopian shores, a ship
of Athens covered with wide sails appeared,
and anchored safely by their friendly shore;
and, presently, the mighty Cephalus,
well known through all that nation for his deeds,
addressed them as he landed, and declared
the good will of his people. Him the sons
of Aeacus remembered well, although
they had not seen him for some untold years.
They led him to their father's welcome home;
and with him, also, his two comrades went,
Clytus and Butes.

Center of all eyes,
the hero still retained his charm,
the customary greetings were exchanged,
the graceful hero, bearing in his hands
a branch of olive from his native soil,
delivered the Athenian message, which
requested aid and offered for their thought
the treaty and the ancestral league between
their nations. And he added, Minos sought
not only conquest of the Athenian state
but sovereignty of all the states of Greece.
And when this eloquence had shown his cause;
with left hand on his gleaming sceptre's hilt,
King Aeacus exclaimed: “Ask not our aid,
but take it, Athens; and count boldly yours
all of the force this island holds, and all
things which the state of my affairs supplies.
My strength for this war is not light, and I
have many soldiers for myself and for
my enemy. Thanks to the Gods! the times
are happy, giving no excuse for my
refusal.” “May it prove so,” Cephalus
replied, “and may your city multiply
in men: just now as I was landing, I
rejoiced to meet youths, fair and matched in age.
And yet I miss among them many whom
I saw before when last I visited
your city.” Aeacus then groaned and with
sad voice replied: “With weeping we began,
but better fortune followed. Would that I
could tell the last of it, and not the first!
Giving my heart command that simple words
and briefly spoken may not long detain.
Those happy youths who waited at your need,
who smiled upon you and for whom you ask,
because their absence grieves your noble mind,
they've perished! and their bleaching bones
or scattered ashes, only may remain,
sad remnants, impotent, of vanished power,
so recently my hope and my resource.

“Because this island bears a rival's name,
a deadly pestilence was visited
on my confiding people, through the rage
of jealous Juno flaming for revenge.
This great calamity at first appeared
a natural disease—but soon its power
baffled our utmost efforts. Medicines
availing not, a reign of terror swept
from shore to shore and fearful havoc raged.

“Thick darkness, gathered from descending skies,
enveloped our devoted land with heat
and languid sickness, for the space of full
four moons.—Four times the Moon increased her size.
Hot south winds blew with pestilential breath
upon us. At the same time the diseased
infection reached our needed springs and pools,
thousands of serpents crawling over our
deserted fields, defiled our rivers with
their poison. The swift power of the disease
at first was limited to death of dogs
and birds and cattle, or among wild beasts.
The luckless plowman marvels when he sees
his strong bulls fall while at their task
and sink down in the furrow. Woolly flocks
bleat feebly while their wool falls off without
a cause, and while their bodies pine away.
The prized horse of high courage, and of great
renown when on the race-course, has now lost
victorious spirit, and forgetting his
remembered glory groans in his shut stall,
doomed for inglorious death. The boar forgets
to rage, the stag to trust his speed; and even
the famished bear to fight the stronger herd.

“Death seizes on the vitals of all life;
and in the woods, and in the fields and roads
the loathsome bodies of the dead corrupt
the heavy-hanging air. Even the dogs,
the vultures and the wolves refuse to touch
the putrid flesh, there in the sultry sun
rotting upon the earth; emitting steams,
and exhalations, with a baneful sweep
increasing the dread contagion's wide extent.

So spreading, with renewed destruction gained
from its own poison, the fierce pestilence
appeared to leap from moulding carcases
of all the brute creation, till it struck
the wretched tillers of the soil, and then
extended its dominion over all
this mighty city.

“Always it began
as if the patient's bowels were scorched with flames;
red blotches on the body next appeared,
and sharp pains in the lungs prevented breath.
The swollen tongue would presently loll out,
rough and discolored from the gaping mouth,
wide-gasping to inhale the noxious air—
and show red throbbing veins. The softest bed.
And richest covering gave to none relief;
but rather, the diseased would bare himself
to cool his burning breast upon the ground,
only to heat the earth—and no relief
returned. And no physician could be found;
for those who ministered among the sick
were first to suffer from the dread disease—
the cruel malady broke out upon
the very ones who offered remedies.
The hallowed art of medicine became
a deadly snare to those who knew it best.

“The only safety was in flight; and those
who were the nearest to the stricken ones,
and who most faithfully observed their wants,
were always first to suffer as their wards.

“And many, certain of approaching death,
indulged their wicked passions—recklessly
abandoned and without the sense of shame,
promiscuously huddled by the wells,
and rivers and cool fountains; but their thirst
no water could assuage, and death alone
was able to extinguish their desire.
Too weak to rise, they die in water they
pollute, while others drink its death.

“A madness seizing on them made their beds
become most irksome to their tortured nerves.
Demented they could not endure the pain,
and leaped insanely forth. Or if too weak,
the wretches rolled their bodies on the ground,
insistent to escape from hated homes—
imagined sources of calamity;
for, since the cause was hidden and unknown,
the horrible locality was blamed.
Suspicion seizes on each frail presence
as proof of what can never be resolved.

“And many half-dead wretches staggered out
on sultry roads as long as they could stand;
and others weeping, stretched out on the ground,
died in convulsions, as their rolling eyes
gazed upwards at the overhanging clouds;
under the sad stars they breathed out their souls.

“And oh, the deep despair that seized on me,
the sovereign of that wretched people! I
was tortured with a passionate desire
to die the same death—And I hated life.

“No matter where my shrinking eyes were turned,
I saw a multitude of gruesome forms
in ghastly attitudes bestrew the ground,
scattered as rotten apples that have dropped
from moving branches, or as acorns thick
around a gnarled oak.

“Lift up your eyes!
Behold that holy temple! unto Jove
long dedicated!—What availed the prayers
of frightened multitudes, or incense burned
on those devoted altars?—In the midst
of his most fervent supplications,
the husband as he pled for his dear wife,
or the fond father for his stricken son,
would suddenly, before a word prevailed,
die clutching at the altars of his Gods,
while holding in his stiffened hand, a spray
of frankincense still waiting for the fire.
How often sacrificial bulls have been
brought to those temples, and while white-robed priest
was pouring offered wine between their horns,
have fallen without waiting for the stroke.

“While I prepared a sacrifice to Jove,
for my behalf, my country and three sons,
the victim, ever moaning dismal sounds,
before a blow was struck, fell suddenly
beside the altar; and his scanty blood
ran thinly from the knives that slaughtered him.
His entrails, wanting all the marks of truth
were so diseased, the warnings of the Gods
could not be read—the baneful malady
had penetrated to the heart of life.

“And I have seen the carcases of men
lie rotting at the sacred temple gates,
or by the very altars, where they fell,
making death odious to the living Gods.
And often I have seen some desperate man
end life by his own halter, and so cheat
by voluntary death his fear of death,
in mad haste to outrun approaching fate.

“The bodies of the dead, indecently
were cast forth, lacking sacred funeral rites
as hitherto the custom. All the gates
were crowded with processions of the dead.
Unburied, they might lie upon the ground,
or else, deserted, on their lofty pyres
with no one to lament their dismal end,
dissolve in their dishonored ashes. All
restraint forgotten, a mad rabble fought
and took possession of the burning pyres,
and even the dead were ravished of their rest.—
And who should mourn them wanting, all the souls
of sons and husbands, and of old and young,
must wander unlamented: and the land
sufficed not for the crowded sepulchers:
and the dense forest was denuded of all trees.

“Heart-broken at the sight of this great woe,
I wailed, ‘O Jupiter! if truth were told
of your sweet comfort in Aegina's arms,
if you were not ashamed of me, your son,
restore my people, or entomb my corpse,
that I may suffer as the ones I love.’—
Great lightning flashed around me, and the sound
of thunder proved that my complaint was heard.
Accepting it, I cried, ‘Let these, Great Jove,
the happy signs of your assent, be shown
good omens given as a sacred pledge.’

“Near by, a sacred oak tree grown from seed
brought thither from Dodona, spread abroad
its branches thinly covered with green leaves;
and creeping as an army, on the tree
we saw a train of ants that carried grain,
half-hidden in the deep and wrinkled bark.
And while I wondered at the endless line
I said, ‘Good father, give me citizens
of equal number for my empty walls.’
Soon as I said those words, though not a wind
was moving nor a breeze,—the lofty tree
began to tremble, and I heard a sound
of motion in its branches. Wonder not
that sudden fear possessed me; and my hair
began to rise; and I could hardly stand
for so my weak knees tottered!—As I made
obeisance to the soil and sacred tree,
perhaps I cherished in my heart a thought,
that, not acknowledged, cheered me with some hope.

“At night I lay exhausted by such thoughts,
a deep sleep seized my body, but the tree
seemed always present—to my gaze distinct
with all its branches—I could even see
the birds among its leaves; and from its boughs,
that trembled in the still air, moving ants
were scattered to the ground in troops below;
and ever, as they touched the soil, they grew
larger and larger.—As they raised themselves,
they stood with upright bodies, and put off
their lean shapes; and absorbed their many feet:
and even as their dark brown color changed,
their rounded forms took on a human shape.

“When my strange dream departed, I awoke,
the vision vanished, I complained to Heaven
against the idle comfort of such dreams;
but as I voiced my own lament, I heard
a mighty murmur echoing through the halls
of my deserted palace, and a multitude
of voices in confusion; where the sound
of scarce an echo had disturbed the still
deserted chambers for so many days.

“All this I thought the fancy of my dream,
until my brave son Telamon, in haste
threw open the closed doorway, as he called,
‘Come quickly father, and behold a sight
beyond the utmost of your fondest dreams!’
I did go out, and there I saw such men
each in his turn, as I had seen transformed
in that weird vision of the moving ants.

“They all advanced, and hailed me as their king.
So soon as I had offered vows to Jove,
I subdivided the deserted farms,
and dwellings in the cities to these men
miraculously raised —which now are called
my Myrmidons, —the living evidence
of my strange vision. You have seen these men;
and since that day, their name has been declared,
‘Decisive evidence.’ They have retained
the well-known customs of the days before
their transformation. Patiently they toil;
they store the profits of their labor; which
they guard with valiant skill. They'll follow you
to any war, well matched in years and courage,
and I do promise, when this east wind turns,
this wind that favored you and brought you here,
and when a south wind favors our design,
then my brave Myrmidons will go with you.”
This narrative and many other tales
had occupied the day. As twilight fell,
festivities were blended in the night—
the night, in turn, afforded sweet repose.
Soon as the golden Sun had shown his light,
the east wind blowing still, the ships were stayed
from sailing home. The sons of Pallas came
to Cephalus, who was the elder called;
and Cephalus together with the sons
of Pallas, went to see the king. Deep sleep
still held the king; and Phocus who was son
of Aeacus, received them at the gate,
instead of Telamon and Peleus who
were marshalling the men for war. Into
the inner court and beautiful apartments
Phocus conducted the Athenians,
and they sat down together. Phocus then
observed that Cephalus held in his hand
a curious javelin with golden head,
and shaft of some rare wood. And as they talked,
he said; “It is my pleasure to explore
the forest in the chase of startled game,
and so I've learned the nature of rare woods,
but never have I seen the match of this
from which was fashioned this good javelin;
it lacks the yellow tint of forest ash,
it is not knotted like all corner-wood;
although I cannot name the kind of wood,
my eyes have never seen a javelin-shaft
so beautiful as this.”

To him replied
a friend of Cephalus; “But you will find
its beauty is not equal to its worth,
for whatsoever it is aimed against,
its flight is always certain to the mark,
nor is it subject to the shift of chance;
and after it has struck, although no hand
may cast it back, it certainly returns,
bloodstained with every victim.”

Then indeed,
was Phocus anxious to be told, whence came
and who had given such a precious gift.
And Cephalus appeared to tell him all;
but craftily was silent on one strange
condition of the fatal gift. As he
recalled the mournful fate of his dear wife,
his eyes filled up with tears. “Ah, pity me,”
he said, “If Fate should grant me many years,
I must weep every time that I regard
this weapon which has been my cause of tears;
the unforgiven death of my dear wife—
ah, would that I had never handled it!

“My sweet wife, Procris!—if you could compare
her beauty with her sister's—Orithyia's,
(ravished by the blustering Boreas)
you would declare my wife more beautiful.

“'Tis she her sire Erectheus joined to me,
'Tis she the god Love also joined to me.
They called me happy, and in truth I was,
and all pronounced us so until the Gods
decreed it otherwise. Two joyful months
of our united love were almost passed,
when, as the grey light of the dawn dispelled,
upon the summit of Hymettus green,
Aurora, glorious in her golden robes,
observed me busy with encircling nets,
trapping the antlered deer.

“Against my will
incited by desire, she carried me
away with her. Oh, let me not increase
her anger, for I tell you what is true,
I found no comfort in her lovely face!
And, though she is the very queen of light,
and reigns upon the edge of shadowy space
where she is nourished on rich nectar-wine,
adding delight to beauty, I could give
no heed to her entreaties, for the thought
of my beloved Procris intervened;
and only her sweet name was on my lips.