Metamorphoses

Ovid

Ovid. Metamorphoses. More, Brookes, translator. Boston: Cornhill Publishing Co., 1922.

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.