Metamorphoses

Ovid

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

Such was the grove
by Orpheus drawn together; and he sat
surrounded by assembled animals,
and many strange Birds. When he tried the chords
by touching with his thumb, and was convinced
the notes were all in harmony, although
attuned to various melody, he raised
his voice and sang:
“Oh my loved mother, Muse,
from Jove inspire my song—for all things yield,
to the unequalled sway of Jove—oh, I
have sung so often Jupiter's great power
before this day, and in a wilder strain,
I've sung the giants and victorious bolts
hurled on Phlegraean plains. But now I need
the gentler touch; for I would sing of boys,
the favorites of Gods, and even of maids
who had to pay the penalty of wrong.”
The king of all the Gods once burned with love
for Ganymede of Phrygia. He found
a shape more pleasing even than his own.
Jove would not take the form of any bird,
except the eagle's, able to sustain
the weight of his own thunderbolts. Without
delay, Jove on fictitious eagle wings,
stole and flew off with that loved Trojan boy:
who even to this day, against the will
of Juno, mingles nectar in the cups
of his protector, mighty Jupiter.
You also, Hyacinthus, would have been
set in the sky! if Phoebus had been given
time which the cruel fates denied for you.
But in a way you are immortal too.
Though you have died. Always when warm spring
drives winter out, and Aries (the Ram)
succeeds to Pisces (watery Fish), you rise
and blossom on the green turf. And the love
my father had for you was deeper than he felt
for others. Delphi center of the world,
had no presiding guardian, while the God
frequented the Eurotas and the land
of Sparta, never fortified with walls.
His zither and his bow no longer fill
his eager mind and now without a thought
of dignity, he carried nets and held
the dogs in leash, and did not hesitate
to go with Hyacinthus on the rough,
steep mountain ridges; and by all of such
associations, his love was increased.
Now Titan was about midway, betwixt
the coming and the banished night, and stood
at equal distance from those two extremes.
Then, when the youth and Phoebus were well stripped,
and gleaming with rich olive oil, they tried
a friendly contest with the discus. First
Phoebus, well-poised, sent it awhirl through air,
and cleft the clouds beyond with its broad weight;
from which at length it fell down to the earth,
a certain evidence of strength and skill.
Heedless of danger Hyacinthus rushed
for eager glory of the game, resolved
to get the discus. But it bounded back
from off the hard earth, and struck full against
your face, O Hyacinthus! Deadly pale
the God's face went — as pallid as the boy's.
With care he lifted the sad huddled form.
The kind god tries to warm you back to life,
and next endeavors to attend your wound,
and stay your parting soul with healing herbs.
His skill is no advantage, for the wound
is past all art of cure. As if someone,
when in a garden, breaks off violets,
poppies, or lilies hung from golden stems,
then drooping they must hang their withered heads,
and gaze down towards the earth beneath them; so,
the dying boy's face droops, and his bent neck,
a burden to itself, falls back upon
his shoulder: “You are fallen in your prime
defrauded of your youth, O Hyacinthus!”
Moaned Apollo. “I can see in your sad wound
my own guilt, and you are my cause of grief
and self-reproach. My own hand gave you death
unmerited — I only can be charged
with your destruction.—What have I done wrong?
Can it be called a fault to play with you?
Should loving you be called a fault? And oh,
that I might now give up my life for you!
Or die with you! But since our destinies
prevent us you shall always be with me,
and you shall dwell upon my care-filled lips.
The lyre struck by my hand, and my true songs
will always celebrate you. A new flower
you shall arise, with markings on your petals,
close imitation of my constant moans:
and there shall come another to be linked
with this new flower, a valiant hero shall
be known by the same marks upon its petals.”
And while Phoebus, Apollo, sang these words
with his truth-telling lips, behold the blood
of Hyacinthus, which had poured out on
the ground beside him and there stained the grass,
was changed from blood; and in its place a flower,
more beautiful than Tyrian dye, sprang up.
It almost seemed a lily, were it not
that one was purple and the other white.
But Phoebus was not satisfied with this.
For it was he who worked the miracle
of his sad words inscribed on flower leaves.
These letters AI, AI, are inscribed
on them. And Sparta certainly is proud
to honor Hyacinthus as her son;
and his loved fame endures; and every year
they celebrate his solemn festival.

If you should ask Amathus, which is rich
in metals, how can she rejoice and take
a pride in deeds of her Propoetides;
she would disclaim it and repudiate
them all, as well as those of transformed men,
whose foreheads were deformed by two rough horns,
from which their name Cerastae. By their gates
an altar unto Jove stood. If by chance
a stranger, not informed of their dark crimes,
had seen the horrid altar smeared with blood,
he would suppose that suckling calves and sheep
of Amathus, were sacrificed thereon—
it was in fact the blood of slaughtered guests!
Kind-hearted Venus, outraged by such deeds
of sacrifice, was ready to desert
her cities and her snake-infested plains;
“But how,” said she, “have their delightful lands
together with my well built cities sinned?
What crime have they done?—Those inhabitants
should pay the penalty of their own crimes
by exile or by death; or it may be
a middle course, between exile and death;
and what can that be, but the punishment
of a changed form?” And while she hesitates,
in various thoughts of what form they should take,
her eyes by chance, observed their horns,
and that decided her; such horns could well
be on them after any change occurred,
and she transformed their big and brutal bodies
to savage bulls.
But even after that,
the obscene Propoetides dared to deny
divinity of Venus, for which fault,
(and it is common fame) they were the first
to criminate their bodies, through the wrath
of Venus; and so blushing shame was lost,
white blood, in their bad faces grew so fast,
so hard, it was no wonder they were turned
with small change into hard and lifeless stones.

Pygmalion saw these women waste their lives
in wretched shame, and critical of faults
which nature had so deeply planted through
their female hearts, he lived in preference,
for many years unmarried.—But while he
was single, with consummate skill, he carved
a statue out of snow-white ivory,
and gave to it exquisite beauty, which
no woman of the world has ever equalled:
she was so beautiful, he fell in love
with his creation. It appeared in truth
a perfect virgin with the grace of life,
but in the expression of such modesty
all motion was restrained—and so his art
concealed his art. Pygmalion gazed, inflamed
with love and admiration for the form,
in semblance of a woman, he had carved.
He lifts up both his hands to feel the work,
and wonders if it can be ivory,
because it seems to him more truly flesh. —
his mind refusing to conceive of it
as ivory, he kisses it and feels
his kisses are returned. And speaking love,
caresses it with loving hands that seem
to make an impress, on the parts they touch,
so real that he fears he then may bruise
her by his eager pressing. Softest tones
are used each time he speaks to her. He brings
to her such presents as are surely prized
by sweet girls; such as smooth round pebbles, shells,
and birds, and fragrant flowers of thousand tints,
lilies, and painted balls, and amber tears
of Heliads, which distill from far off trees.—
he drapes her in rich clothing and in gems:
rings on her fingers, a rich necklace round
her neck, pearl pendants on her graceful ears;
and golden ornaments adorn her breast.
All these are beautiful—and she appears
most lovable, if carefully attired,—
or perfect as a statue, unadorned.
He lays her on a bed luxurious, spread
with coverlets of Tyrian purple dye,
and naming her the consort of his couch,
lays her reclining head on the most soft
and downy pillows, trusting she could feel.
The festal day of Venus, known throughout
all Cyprus, now had come, and throngs were there
to celebrate. Heifers with spreading horns,
all gold-tipped, fell when given the stroke of death
upon their snow-white necks; and frankincense
was smoking on the altars. There, intent,
Pygmalion stood before an altar, when
his offering had been made; and although he
feared the result, he prayed: “If it is true,
O Gods, that you can give all things, I pray
to have as my wife—” but, he did not dare
to add “my ivory statue-maid,” and said,
“One like my ivory—.” Golden Venus heard,
for she was present at her festival,
and she knew clearly what the prayer had meant.
She gave a sign that her Divinity
favored his plea: three times the flame leaped high
and brightly in the air.
When he returned,
he went directly to his image-maid,
bent over her, and kissed her many times,
while she was on her couch; and as he kissed,
she seemed to gather some warmth from his lips.
Again he kissed her; and he felt her breast;
the ivory seemed to soften at the touch,
and its firm texture yielded to his hand,
as honey-wax of Mount Hymettus turns
to many shapes when handled in the sun,
and surely softens from each gentle touch.
He is amazed; but stands rejoicing in his doubt;
while fearful there is some mistake, again
and yet again, gives trial to his hopes
by touching with his hand. It must be flesh!
The veins pulsate beneath the careful test
of his directed finger. Then, indeed,
the astonished hero poured out lavish thanks
to Venus; pressing with his raptured lips
his statue's lips. Now real, true to life—
the maiden felt the kisses given to her,
and blushing, lifted up her timid eyes,
so that she saw the light and sky above,
as well as her rapt lover while he leaned
gazing beside her—and all this at once—
the goddess graced the marriage she had willed,
and when nine times a crescent moon had changed,
increasing to the full, the statue-bride
gave birth to her dear daughter Paphos. From
which famed event the island takes its name.

The royal Cinyras was sprung from her;
and if he had been father of no child,
might well have been accounted fortunate—
but I must sing of horrible events—
avoid it daughters! Parents! shun this tale!
But if my verse has charmed your thought,
do not give me such credit in this part;
convince yourself it cannot be true life;
or, if against my wish you hear and must
believe it, then be sure to notice how
such wickedness gets certain punishment.
And yet, if Nature could permit such crimes
as this to happen, I congratulate
Ismarian people and all Thrace as well,
and I congratulate this nation, which
we know is far away from the land where
this vile abomination did occur.
The land we call Panchaia may be rich
in balsam, cinnamon, and costum sweet
for ointment, frankincense distilled from trees,
with many flowers besides. All this large wealth
combined could never compensate the land
for this detestable, one crime: even though
the new Myrrh-Tree advanced on that rich soil.
Cupid declares his weapons never caused
an injury to Myrrha, and denies
his torches ever could have urged her crime.—
one of the three bad sisters kindled this,
with fire brand from the Styx, and poisoned you
with swollen vipers.—It is criminal
to hate a parent, but love such as hers
is certainly more criminal than hate.
The chosen princes of all lands desire
you now in marriage, and young men throughout
the Orient are vying for your hand.
Choose, Myrrha one from all of these for your
good husband; but exclude from such a thought
your father only. She indeed is quite
aware, and struggles bitterly against
her vile desires, and argues in her heart:—
“What am I tending to? O listening Gods
I pray for aid, I pray to Natural Love!
Ah, may the sacred rights of parents keep
this vile desire from me, defend me from
a crime so great—If it indeed is crime.
I am not sure it is—I have not heard
that any god or written law condemns
the union of a parent and his child.
All animals will mate as they desire—
a heifer may endure her sire, and who
condemns it? And the happy stud is not
refused by his mare-daughters: the he-goat
consorts unthought-of with the flock of which
he is the father; and the birds conceive
of those from whom they were themselves begot.
Happy are they who have such privilege!
Malignant men have given spiteful laws;
and what is right to Nature is decreed
unnatural, by jealous laws of men.
“But it is said there are some tribes today,
in which the mother marries her own son;
the daughter takes her father; and by this,
the love kind Nature gives them is increased
into a double bond.—Ah wretched me!
Why was it not my fortune to be born
in that love-blessed land? I must abide,
depressed by my misfortunes, in this place.
“Why do I dwell on these forbidden hopes?
Let me forget to think of lawless flame.
My father is most worthy of my love,
but only as a father.—If I were
not born the daughter of great Cinyras,
I might be joined to him; but, as it stands,
because he is mine he is never mine;
because near to me he is far from me.
“It would be better for me, if we were
but strangers to each other; for I then,
could wish to go, and leave my native land,
and so escape temptation to this crime:
but my unhappy passion holds me here,
that I may see Cinyras face to face,
and touch him, talk with him and even kiss him—
the best, if nothing else can be allowed.
“But what more could be asked for, by the most
depraved? Think of the many sacred ties
and loved names, you are dragging to the mire:
the rival of your mother, will you be
the mistress of your father, and be named
the sister of your son, and make yourself
the mother of your brother? And will you
not dread the sisters with black snakes for hair.
Whom guilty creatures, such as you, can see
brandish relentless flames before their eyes
and faces? While your body has not sinned
you must not let sin creep into your heart,
and violate great Nature's law with your
unlawful rovings. If you had the right
to long for his endearment, it could not
be possible. He is a virtuous man
and is regardful of the moral law—
oh how I wish my passion could be his!”
And so she argued and declared her love:
but Cinyras, her father, who was urged
by such a throng of suitors for her hand,
that he could make no choice, at last inquired
of her, so she might make her heart's wish known.
And as he named them over, asked her which
she fixed her gaze upon her father's face,
in doubtful agony what she could say,
while hot tears filled her eyes. Her father, sure
it all was of a virginal alarm,
as he is telling her she need not weep
dries her wet cheeks and kisses her sweet lips.
Too much delighted with his gentle words
and kind endearments, Myrrha, when he asked
again, which one might be her husband, said,
“The one just like yourself.”, And he replied
not understanding what her heart would say,
“You answer as a loving-daughter should.”
When she heard “loving-daughter” said, the girl
too conscious of her guilt, looked on the ground.
It was now midnight, peaceful sleep dissolved
the world-care of all mortals, but of her
who, sleepless through the night, burnt in the flame
of her misplaced affection. First despair
compels her to abandon every hope,
and then she changes and resolves to try;
and so she wavers from desire to shame,
for she could not adhere to any plan.
As a great tree, cut by the swinging axe
is chopped until the last blow has been struck,
then sways and threatens danger to all sides;
so does her weak mind, cut with many blows,
waver unsteadily—this way and that—
and turning back and forth it finds no rest
from passion, save the rest that lies in death.
The thought of death gave comfort to her heart.
Resolved to hang herself, she sat upright;
then, as she tied her girdle to a beam,
she said, “Farewell, beloved Cinyras,
and may you know the cause of my sad death.”
And while she spoke those words, her fingers fixed
the noosed rope close around her death-pale neck.
They say the murmur of despairing words
was heard by her attentive nurse who watched
outside the room. And, faithful as of old,
she opened the shut door. But, when she saw
the frightful preparations made for death,
the odd nurse screamed and beat and tore her breast,
then seized and snatched the rope from Myrrha's neck;
and after she had torn the noose apart,
at last she had the time to weep and time,
while she embraced the girl, to ask her why
the halter had been fastened round her neck.
The girl in stubborn silence only fixed
her eyes upon the ground—sad that her first
attempt at death, because too slow, was foiled.
The old nurse-woman urged and urged, and showed
her gray hair and her withered breasts, and begged
her by the memory of her cradle days,
and baby nourishment, to hide no more
from her long-trusted nurse what caused her grief.
The girl turned from her questions with a sigh.
The nurse, still more determined to know all,
promised fidelity and her best aid—
“Tell me,” she said, “and let me give you help;
my old age offers means for your relief:
if it be frantic passion, I have charms
and healing herbs; or, if an evil spell
was worked on you by someone, you shall be
cured to your perfect self by magic rites;
or, if your actions have enraged the Gods,
a sacrifice will satisfy their wrath.
What else could be the cause? Your family
and you are prosperous—your mother dear,
and your loved father are alive and well.”
And, when she heard her say the name of father,
a sigh heaved up from her distracted heart.
But even after that the nurse could not
conceive such evil in the girl's sick heart;
and yet she had a feeling it must be
only a love affair could cause the crime:
and with persistent purpose begged the cause.
She pressed the weeping girl against her breast;
and as she held her in her feeble arms,
she said, “Sweet heart, I know you are in love:
in this affair I am entirely yours
for your good service, you must have no fear,
your father cannot learn of it from me.,”
just like a mad girl, Myrrha sprang away,
and with her face deep-buried in a couch,
sobbed out, “Go from me or stop asking me
my cause of grief—it is a crime of shame—
I cannot tell it!” Horrified the nurse
stretched forth her trembling hands, palsied
with age and fear. She fell down at the feet
of her loved foster-child, and coaxing her
and frightening her, she threatened to disclose
her knowledge of the halter and of what
she knew of her attempted suicide;
and after all was said, she gave her word
to help the girl, when she had given to her
a true confession of her sad heart-love.
The girl just lifted up her face, and laid
it, weeping, on the bosom of her nurse.
She tried so often to confess, and just
as often checked her words, her shamed face hid
deep in her garment: “Oh”, at last she groans,
“O mother blessed in your husband—oh!”
Only that much she said and groaned. The nurse
felt a cold horror stealing through her heart
and frame, for she now understood it all.
And her white hair stood bristling on her head,
while with the utmost care of love and art
she strove to use appropriate words and deeds,
to banish the mad passion of the girl.
Though Myrrha knew that she was truly warned,
she was resolved to die, unless she could
obtain the object of her wicked love.
The nurse gave way at last as in defeat,
and said, “Live and enjoy—” but did not dare
to say, “your father”, did not finish, though,
she promised and confirmed it with an oath.
It was the time when matrons celebrate
the annual festival of Ceres. Then,
all robed in decent garments of snow-white,
they bring garlands of precious wheat, which are
first fruits of worship; and for nine nights they
must count forbidden every act of love,
and shun the touch of man. And in that throng,
Cenchreis, the king's wife, with constant care
attended every secret rite: and so
while the king's bed was lacking his true wife,
one of those nights,—King Cinyras was drunk
with too much wine,—the scheming nurse informed
him of a girl most beautiful, whose love
for him was passionate; in a false tale
she pictured a true passion. — When he asked
the maiden's age, she answered, “Just the same
as Myrrha's.” Bidden by the king to go
and fetch her, the officious old nurse, when
she found the girl, cried out; “Rejoice, my dear,
we have contrived it!” The unhappy girl
could not feel genuine joy in her amazed
and startled body. Her dazed mind was filled
with strange forebodings; but she did believe
her heart was joyful.—Great excitement filled
her wrecked heart with such inconsistencies.
Now was the time when nature is at rest;
between the Bears, Bootes turned his wain
down to the west, and the guilty Myrrha turns
to her enormity. The golden moon
flies from the heaven, and black clouds cover
the hiding stars and Night has lost her fires.
The first to hide were stars of Icarus
and of Erigone, in hallowed love
devoted to her father. Myrrha thrice
was warned by omen of her stumbling foot;
the funeral screech-owl also warned her thrice,
with dismal cry; yet Myrrha onward goes.
It seems to her the black night lessens shame.
She holds fast to her nurse with her left hand,
and with the other hand gropes through the dark.
And now they go until she finds the door.
Now at the threshold of her father's room,
she softly pushes back the door, her nurse
takes her within. The girl's knees trembling sink
beneath her. Her drawn bloodless face has lost
its color, and while she moves to the crime,
bad courage goes from her until afraid
of her bold effort, she would gladly turn
unrecognized. But as she hesitates,
the aged crone still holds her by the hand;
and leading her up to the high bed there
delivering Myrrha, says, “Now Cinyras,
you take her, she is yours;” and leaves the pair
doomed in their crime — the father to pollute
his own flesh in his own bed; where he tries
first to encourage her from maiden fears,
by gently talking to the timid girl.
He chanced to call her “daughter,” as a name
best suited to her age; and she in turn,
endearing, called him “father”, so no names
might be omitted to complete their guilt.
She staggered from his chamber with the crime
of her own father hidden in her womb,
and their guilt was repeated many nights;
till Cinyras — determined he must know
his mistress, after many meetings, brought
a light and knew his crime had harmed his daughter.
Speechless in shame he drew forth his bright sword
out from the scabbard where it hung near by.—
but frightened Myrrha fled, and so escaped
death in the shadows of dark night. Groping
her pathless way at random through the fields,
she left Arabia, famed for spreading palms,
and wandered through Panchaean lands. Until
after nine months of aimless wandering days,
she rested in Sabaea, for she could
not hold the burden she had borne so long.
Not knowing what to pray for, moved alike
by fear of death and weariness of life,
her wishes were expressed in prayer: “O Gods,
if you will listen to my prayer, I do
not shun a dreadful punishment deserved;
but now because my life offends the living,
and dying I offend the dead, drive me
from both conditions; change me, and refuse
my flesh both life and death!”
Some god did listen
to her unnatural prayer; her last petition
had answering gods. For even as she prayed,
the earth closed over her legs; roots grew out
and, stretching forth obliquely from her nails,
gave strong support to her up-growing trunk;
her bones got harder, and her marrow still
unchanged, kept to the center, as her blood
was changed to sap, as her outstretching arms
became long branches and her fingers twigs;
and as her soft skin hardened into bark:
and the fast-growing tree had closely bound
her womb, still heavy, and had covered her
soft bosom; and was spreading quickly up
to her neck.—She can not endure the strain,
and sinking down into the rising wood,
her whole face soon was hidden in the bark.
Although all sense of human life was gone,
as quickly as she lost her human form,
her weeping was continued, and warm drops
distilled from her (the tree) cease not to fall.
There is a virtue even in her tears—
the valued myrrh distilling from the trunk,
keeps to her name, by which she still is known,
and cannot be forgot of aging time.
The guilt-begotten child had growth while wood
was growing, and endeavored now to find
a way of safe birth. The tree-trunk was swelling
and tightened against Myrrha, who, unable
to express her torture, could not call upon
Lucina in the usual words of travail.
But then just like a woman in great pain,
the tree bends down and, while it groans, bedews
itself with falling tears. Lucina stood
in pity near the groaning branches, laid
her hands on them, and uttered charms to aid
the hindered birth. The tree cracked open then,
the bark was rent asunder, and it gave forth
its living weight, a wailing baby-boy.
The Naiads laid him on soft leaves, and they
anointed him with his own mother's tears.
Even Envy would not fail to praise the child,
as beautiful as naked cupids seen
in chosen paintings. Only give to him
a polished quiver, or take theirs from them,
and no keen eye could choose him from their midst.