Metamorphoses

Ovid

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

His vengence now complete, Latona's son
borne through the liquid air, departed from
Tmolus, and then rested on the land
of Laomedon, this side the narrow sea
dividing Phrygia from the land of Thrace.
The promontory of Sigaeum right
and on the left Rhoetaeum loftily arose;
and at that place an ancient altar had
been dedicated to great Jove, the god
Panomphaean. And near that place he saw
laomedon, beginning then to build
the walls of famous Troy. He was convinced
the task exceeded all the power of man,
requiring great resource. Together with
the trident-bearing father of the deep,
he assumed a mortal form: and those two gods
agreed to labor for a sum of gold
and built the mighty wall. But that false king
refused all payment, adding perjury
to his false bargaining. Neptune, enraged,
said, “You shall not escape your punishment.”
And he drove all his waters high upon
the shores of Troy—built there through perfidy.
The sad land seemed a sea: the hard-earned wealth
of all its farmers was destroyed
and overwhelmed by furious waves.
This awful punishment was not enough.
The daughter of the king was soon required
as food for a sea-monster—. Hesione
was chained to rugged rocks. But Hercules
delivered from all harm the royal maid
and justly he demanded of the king,
her father, payment of the promised steeds;
but that perfidious king refused to keep
his promise. Hercules enraged, because
all payment was denied to him for his
great service, captured the twice-perjured walls
of conquered Troy. And as a fair reward,
he gave to Telamon, who fought for him,
Hesione, loved daughter of that king.
For Peleus had a goddess as his bride
and he was prouder of his father-in-law
than of his grandsire. Since not he alone
was grandson of great Jove, but he alone
was honored with a goddess for a wife.

To Thetis, aged Proteus once had said,
“Oh goddess of the waves, you shall conceive,
and you shall be the mother of a youth
who by heroic actions will surpass
the deeds of his own father, and your son
shall be superior to his father's power.”
So Jupiter, although the flame of love
for Thetis burned his breast, would not embrace
the lovely daughter of the sea, and urged
his grandson Peleus, son of Aeacus,
to wed the green haired maid without delay.
There is a curved bay of Haemonia,
where like an arch, two bending arms
project out in the waves, as if to form
a harbor; but the water is not deep—
although enough to hide a shoal of sand.
It has a firm shore which will not retain
a foot's impression, nor delay the step—
no seaweeds grow in that vicinity.
There is a grove of myrtle near that place
thick-hung with berries, blended of twin shades.
A cave within the middle of that grove
is found, and whether it was formed by art
or nature is not known, although it seems
a work of art. There Thetis often went,
quite naked, seated on her dolphin, which
was harnessed. Peleus seized her there when she
was fast asleep: and after he had tried
to win her by entreaties, while she long
continued to resist him, he resolved
to conquer her by violence, and seized
her neck with both arms. She resorted then
to all her usual art, and often changed:
her shape as it was known, so that he failed
in his attempt. At first she was a bird,
but while she seemed a bird he held her fast;
and then she changed herself to a large tree,
and Peleus clung with ardor to the tree;
her third disguise was as a spotted tigress,
which frightened him so that he lost his hold.
Then, as he poured wine on the heaving sea,
he prayed unto the sea green gods and gave
them sacrifice of sheep entrails, and smoke
of frankincense. He ceased not, till at last
the prophet of Carpathia, as he rose
up from a deep wave, said, “Hark unto me,
O son of Aeacus! and you shall have
the bride your heart desires: when she at rest
lies sleeping in the cool wave, you must bind
her while she is unwary, with strong cords
and complicated bonds, And never let
her arts deceive you when she imitates
a hundred varied forms, but hold her fast,
whatever she may seem, until she shall
at length assume the shape she had at first.”
So Proteus cautioned him, and hid his face
beneath the waves as his last words were said.
Now Titan was descending and the pole
of his bright chariot as it downward bent
illuminated the Hesperian main;
and at that time the lovely Nereid,
Thetis, departing from her ocean wave,
entered the cavern for desired repose.
Peleus was waiting there. Immediately,
just as he seized upon the virgin's limbs,
she changed her shape and perservered
until convinced she could not overcome
his hold—for her two arms were forced apart—
she groaned and said, “You could not overcome
me in this way, but some divinity
has given you the power.” Then she appeared
as Thetis: and, when Peleus saw her now
deprived of all deceptions, he embraced
her and was father of the great Achilles.

Great Peleus' heart was filled with happiness;
because of his great son and Thetis his
dear wife: he was blest in everything, except
in killing Phocus. The Trachinian land
received him guilty of his brother's blood;
when he fled, banished from his native home.
There Ceyx, who had the fine countenance
of Lucifer his father, reigned as king,
without the cost of violence or blood.
Before this time his days had always given
him joy and comfort, but all now was changed,
for he was mourning a loved brother's death.
Peleus, outwearied with his journey's length.
Left his fine flock of sheep and all the herds
he had brought with him, not far from the walls
of that city, where Ceyx long had reigned.
He entered with an olive branch all swathed
in woolen fillets, symbol of good will,
and with a suppliant hand disclosed his name.
He told the monarch who he was, also
his father's name. But he concealed his crime,
giving untruthful reasons for his flight:
and begged a refuge either in town or field.
The king of Trachyn answered with kind words:
“Ah, Peleus, even the lowest ranks enjoy
our bounties and our hospitality,
and you bring with you powers which compell
attention and respect. Your name is so
illustrious, and is not Jupiter
your grandsire? Do not lose your time by such
entreaties. Everything you may desire
is yours as soon as known, and all you see
is partly yours, but in how sad a state!”
And then he wept. When Peleus and his friends
asked him the reason of his grief he said,
“Perchance you deem that bird which lives on prey,
which is the terror of all other birds,
had always feathered wings? It was a man.
And now the vigor of its courage is
as great as when well known by his man's name,
Daedalion, bold in wars and strong and harsh,
and not afraid to hazard violence.
His father was unequalled Lucifer,
star of the Morning, who at dawn brings forth
Aurora, and withdraws the last of all
the shining stars of heaven.—My brother named
daedalion, son of that great star, was fond
of cruel warfare, while I cherished peace
and loved the quiet of my married life.
This brother, powerful in the art of war,
subdued strong kings and nations.—And 'tis he
transformed from manhood, now a bird of prey,
that so relentlessly pursues the doves,
known as the pride of Thisbe's citizens.
“My brother had a daughter Chione
so beautiful she pleased a thousand men,
when she had reached the marriageable age
of twice seven years. It happened by some chance
that Phoebus and the son of Maia, who
returned—one from his Delphi, the other from
Cyllene's heights—beheld this lovely maid
both at the same time, and were both inflamed
with passion. Phoebus waited till the night.
Hermes could not endure delay and with
the magic of his wand, that causes sleep,
he touched the virgin's face; and instantly,
as if entranced, she lay there fast asleep,
and suffered violence from the ardent god.
When night bespangled the wide heaven with stars,
Phoebus became an aged crone and gained
the joy he had deferred until that hour.
“When her mature womb had completed time
Autolycus was born, a crafty son,
who certainly inherited the skill
of wingfoot Mereury, his artful sire,
notorious now; for every kind of theft.
In fact, Autolycus with Mercury's craft,
loved to make white of black, and black of white.
“But Phoebus' child, for Chione bore twins,
was named Philammon, like his sire, well known.
To all men for the beauty of his song.
And famous for his handling of the lyre.
“What benefit in life did she obtain
because she pleased! two gods and bore such twins?
Was she blest by good fortune then because
she was the daughter of a valiant father,
and even the grandchild of the Morning Star?
Can glory be a curse? Often it is.
“And surely it was so for Chione.
It was a prejudice that harmed her days
because she vaunted that she did surpass
Diana's beauty and decried her charms:
the goddess in hot anger answered her,
sarcastically, ‘If my face cannot
give satisfaction, let me try my deeds.’
“Without delay Diana bent her bow,
and from the string an arrow swiftly flew,
and pierced the vaunting tongue of Chione.
Her tongue was silenced, and she tried in vain
to speak or make a sound, and while she tried
her life departed with the flowing blood.
“Embracing her, I shared her father's grief.
I spoke consoling words to my dear brother,
he heard them as a cliff might hear the sea.
And he lamented bitterly the loss
of his dear daughter, snatched away from him.
“Ah! when he saw her burning, he was filled
with such an uncontrolled despair, he rushed
four times to leap upon the blazing pyre;
and after he had been four times repulsed,
he turned and rushed away in headlong flight
through trackless country, as a bullock flees,
his swollen neck pierced with sharp hornet-stings,
it seemed to me he ran beyond the speed
of any human being. You would think
his feet had taken wings, he left us far
behind and swift in his desire for death
he stood at last upon Parnassus' height.
“Apollo pitied him.—And when Daedalion
leaped over the steep cliff, Apollo's power
transformed him to a bird; supported him
while he was hovering in the air upon
uncertain wings, of such a sudden growth.
Apollo, also, gave him a curved beak,
and to his slender toes gave crooked claws.
His former courage still remains, with strength
greater than usual in birds. He changed
to a fierce hawk; cruel to all, he vents
his rage on other birds. Grieving himself
he is a cause of grief to all his kind.”
While Ceyx, the royal son of Lucifer,
told these great wonders of his brother's life;
Onetor, who had watched the while those herds
which Peleus had assigned to him, ran up
with panting speed; and cried out as he ran,
“Peleus, Peleus! I bring you dreadful news!”
Peleus asked him to tell what had gone wrong
and with King Ceyx he listened in suspense.

“I drove the weary bullocks to the shore,”
Onetor then began, “About the time
when the high burning Sun in middle course,
could look back on as much as might be seen
remaining: and some cattle had then bent
their knees on yellow sand; and as they lay
might view the expanse of water stretched beyond.
Some with slow steps were wandering here and there,
and others swimming, stretched their lofty necks
above the waves. A temple near that sea
was fair to view, although 'twas not adorned
with gold nor marble. It was richly made
of beams, and shaded with an ancient grove.
“A sailor, while he dried his nets upon
the shore nearby, declared that aged Nereus
possessed it with his Nereids, as the gods
who ruled the neighboring waters. Very near
it is a marsh, made by the encroaching waves,
all thickly covered with low willow trees.
“From there a loud uncanny crashing sound
alarms the neighborhood. A monster-wolf!
All stained with mud he breaks forth from the marsh,
his thundering jaws thick-covered with vile foam
and clotted blood—his fierce eyes flashing flames
of crimson: and though he was raging, both
with fury and with hunger, the true cause
of his fierce passions was Ferocity.
“He never paused to sate his ravenous hunger
with the first cattle that he fell upon,
but mangled the whole herd, as if at war.
And some of us, while we defended them,
were wounded with his fatal bite and killed.—
the shore and nearest waves were red with blood,
and marshy fens were filled with mournful sounds—
the longings of our cattle.—This delay
is dangerous. We must not hesitate.
We must unite before all is destroyed!
Take up your arms. Arm! and unite, I say!
And bear our weapons for the cause of Right!”
So spoke the countryman, and yet the loss
had no effect on Peleus, though severe,
for he, remembering his red crime, believed
the Nereid had given him that loss—
a just misfortune, as an offering
to the departed Phocus. After this,
King Ceyx, while he put his armor on,
ordered his men to arm themselves with their
best weapons, and to follow his command.
But his fond wife, Halcyone, aroused
by such a tumult, ran to him in haste;
in such haste that her hair was still unfinished,
and such as had been done, she threw
in wild disorder.—Clinging to the neck
of her loved husband, she entreated him
with words and tears, to send his men along.
But keep himself at home and so to save
two lives in one.
But Peleus said “O queen,
'Tis sweet and commendable in you to fear
but needless. Though you promise generous aid,
my hope lies not in fighting with the beast,
I must appease a goddess of the sea.
And the divinity of ocean must
be properly adored.”
A lofty tower
is near there, and upon its extreme height
a signal-fire is burning night and day,
known to the grateful ships. They all went there;
and from its summit they beheld with sighs,
the mangled cattle scattered on the shore,
and saw the ravager among the herd,
his blood-stained jaws and long hair dripping blood.
Then Peleus stretched his arms out towards the sea,
and he implored the azure Psamathe
to lay aside her wrath and give him aid.
But she was deaf to any word of Peleus
entreating her, and would not offer aid,
till Thetis, interceding on behalf
of her afflicted husband, moved her will.
The monster-wolf persisted in his rage,
even when the sea nymph bade him turn aside.
His keen ferocity increased by taste
of new sweet blood; till Psamathe, while he
was seizing the last mangled heifer's neck,
transformed him to hard marble. Every part
of that ferocious monster's shape remained
but it was changed to marble colored stone,
which showed the monster was no more a wolf,
and should no longer be a cause of fear.
But still, the guiding Fates did not permit
the banished Peleus to continue there,
in this land governed by the friendly king.
A wandering exile, he proceeded north
into Magnesia; and was purified
of guilt by King Acastus of that land.

King Ceyx, disturbed by his loved brother's fate
and prodigies which happened since that time,
prepared to venture to the Clarian god,
that he might there consult the oracle,
so sanctified to consolation of distress:
for then the way to Delphi was unsafe
because of Phorbas and his Phlegyans.
Before he went he told his faithful queen,
his dear Halcyone. She felt at once
terror creep through the marrow of her bones,
pallor of boxwood overspread her face,
and her two cheeks were wet with gushing tears.
Three times she tried to speak while tears and sobs
delayed her voice, until at last she said:—
“What fault of mine, my dearest, has so changed
your usual thoughts? Where is that care for me
that always has stood first? Can you leave me
for this long journey with no anxious fear—
Halcyone, forsaken in these halls?
Will this long journey be a pleasant change
because far from you I should be more dear?
Perhaps you think you will go there by land,
and I shall only grieve, and shall not fear
the sea affrights me with its tragic face.
Just lately I observed some broken planks
upon our seashore, and I've read and read
the names of seamen on their empty tombs!
“Oh, let no false assurance fill your mind
because your father-in-law is Aeolus.
Who in a dungeon shuts the stormful winds
and smoothes at will the troubled ocean waves
soon as the winds get freedom from his power,
they take entire possession of the deep,
and nothing is forbidden their attack;
and all the rights of every land and sea
are disregarded by them. They insult
even the clouds of heaven and their wild
concussions urge the lightnings to strike fires.
The more I know of them, for I knew
them in my childhood and I often saw
them from my father's home, the more I fear.
“But, O dear husband! if this new resolve
can not be altered by my prayers and fears,
and if you are determined, take me, too:
some comfort may be gained, if in the storms
we may be tossed together. I shall fear
only the ills that really come to us,
together we can certainly endure
discomforts till we gain that distant land.”
Such words and tears of the daughter of Aeolus
gave Ceyx, famed son of the Morning Star,
much thought and sorrow; for the flame of love
burned in his heart as strongly as in hers.
Reluctant to give up the voyage, even more
to make Halcyone his partner on
the dangerous sea, he answered her complaints
in many ways to pacify her breast,
but could not comfort her until at last
he said, “This separation from your love
will be most sorrowful; and so I swear
to you, as witnessed by the sacred fire
of my Star-father, if the fates permit
my safe return, I will come back to you
before the moon has rounded twice her orb.”
These promises gave hope of his return.
Without delay he ordered a ship should
be drawn forth from the dock, launched in the sea,
and properly supplied against the needs
of travel.—Seeing this, Halcyone,
as if aware of future woe, shuddered,
wept, and embraced him, and in extreme woe
said with a sad voice, “Ah—Farewell!” and then,
her nerveless body sank down to the ground.
While Ceyx longed for some pretext to delay,
the youthful oarsmen, chosen for their strength,
in double rows began to draw the oars
back towards their hardy breasts, cutting the waves
with equal strokes. She raised her weeping eyes
and saw her husband on the high-curved stern.
He by his waving hand made signs to her,
and she returned his signals. Then the ship
moved farther from the shore until her eyes
could not distinguish his loved countenance.
Still, while she could, she followed with her gaze
the fading hull; and, when that too was lost
far in the distance, she remained and gazed
at the white topsails, waving from the mast.
But, when she could no longer see the sails,
with anxious heart she sought her lonely couch
and laid herself upon it. Couch and room
renewed her sorrow and reminded her
how much of life was absent on the sea.
The ship had left the harbor, and the breeze
shook the taut rigging. Now the captain bade
the idle oars be drawn up to the sides.
They ran the pointed sailyards up the mast
and with spread canvas caught the coming breeze.
Perhaps the ship had not sailed half her course,
on every side the land was out of sight
in fact at a great distance, when, towards dark
the sea grew white with its increasing waves,
while boisterous east winds blew with violence.—
prompt in his duty, the captain warns his crew,
“Lower the top sails—quick—furl all the sails
tight to the yards!”—He ordered, but the storm
bore all his words away, his voice could not
be heard above the roaring of the sea.
But of their own accord some sailors rushed
to draw the oars in, others to secure
the sides from danger, and some strove to pull
the sails down from the wind. One pumps the waves
up from the hold, and pours the rushing sea
again into the sea; another takes
the yards off.—While such things are being done
without command or order, the wild storm
increases, and on every side fierce winds
wage a destructive warfare, which stirs up
the furious waters to their utmost power.
Even the captain, terrified, confessed
he did not know the status of the ship,
and could not order nor forbid the men—
so great the storm, so far beyond his skill.
Then he gave up control, while frightened men
shouted above the rattled cordage shocks,
and heavy waves were dashed against huge waves,
and ail the sky reverberated with
terrific thunders. The deep sea upturned
tremendous billows, which appeared to reach
so near the heaven they touched the heavy clouds
with foam of their tossed waters.—At one time,
while the great billows churned up yellow sand
from off the bottom, the wild rolling waves
were of that color. At another time
they were more black than water of the Styx.
Sometimes they levelled, white with lashing foam.

The ship was tossed about in the wild storm:
aloft as from a mountain peak it seemed
to look down on the valley and the depth
of Acheron; and, when sunk down in a trough
of waves engulfing, it appeared to look
up at the zenith from infernal seas.
Often the waves fell on the sides with crash
as terrible as when a flying stone
or iron ram shatters a citadel.
As lions, mustering up their strength anew,
might hurl their breasts against the spears
and outstretched arms of huntsmen, so the waves,
upon the rising of the winds, rushed forth
against the battered sides of the tossed ship
and rose much higher than the slanting masts.
The ship-bolts lost their grip, the loosened planks,
despoiled of covering wax, gave open seams,
through which streamed water of the fatal waves.—
vast sheets of rain pour from dissolving clouds,
so suddenly, it seemed that all the heavens
were flung into the deep, while swelling seas
ascended to the emptied fields of heaven!
The sails are drenched with rain, the salt sea waves
are mingled with the waters of the skies.
The firmament is black without a star,
and night is doubly dark with its own gloom
and blackness of the storm. Quick lightning makes
the black skies glitter, and the waves are fired
with flames of thunder-bolts. Now floods leap up
into the very middle of the ship.
Just as a soldier, more courageous than
the rest of his brave fellows, after he
has often charged against the embattled walls
of a defended city, gains at length
the place which he has fought for; all inflamed
with his desire of glory, scales the wall
and stands alone among a thousand foes;
so, when destructive waves have beat against
the ship's high sides, the tenth wave with known power,
rushes more furious than the nine before,
nor ceases to attack the failing ship,
until dashed high above the captured walls
it surges in the hold. Part of the sea
is still attempting to get in the ship,
and part is in it. All are panic stricken,
like men within a doomed and shaken town;
who see some foes attack the walls without,
and others hold possession of the walls
within the city. Every art has failed,
their courage sinks. With every coming wave
another death seems rushing in upon them.
One sailor yields in tears; another falls
down, stupefied; another calls those blest
whom funeral rites await; another prays,
addressing trusted gods, lifting his hands
up to that heaven unseen, as vainly he
implores some aid divine, and one in fright
recalls his brothers and his parent, while
another names his children and his home:
each frightened sailor thinks of all he left.
King Ceyx thinks only of Halcyone,
no other name is on his lips but hers:
and though he longs for her, yet he is glad
that she is safe at home. Ah, how he tried
to look back to the shore of his loved land,
to turn his last gaze towards his wife and home.
But he has lost direction.—The tossed sea
is raging in a hurricane so vast,
and all the sky is hidden by the gloom
of thickened storm-clouds, doubled in pitch-black.
The mast is shattered by the violence
of drenching tempests, and the useless helm
is broken. One undaunted giant wave
stands over wreck and spoil, and looks down like
a conqueror upon the other waves:
then falls as heavily as if some god
should hurl Mount Athos or Mount Pindus, torn
from rock foundations, into that wide sea:
so, with down-rushing weight and violence
it struck and plunged the ship to the lowest deeps.
And as the ship sank, many of the crew
sank overwhelmed in deep surrounding waves,
never to rise from suffocating death:
but some in desperation, clung for life
to broken timbers and escaped that fate.
King Ceyx clung to a fragment of the wreck
with that majestic hand which often before
had proudly swayed the sceptre. And in vain,
alas, he called upon his father's name,
alas, he begged his father-in-law's support.
But, while he swam, his lips most frequently
pronounced that dearest name, “Halcyone!”
He longs to have his body carried by waves
to her dear gaze and have at last,
entombment by the hands of his loved friends.
Swimming, he called Halcyone—far off,
as often as the billows would allow
his lips to open, and among the waves
his darling's name was murmured, till at last
a night-black arch of water swept above
the highest waves and buried him beneath
engulfing billows.
Lucifer was dim
past recognition when the dawn appeared
and, since he never could depart from heaven,
soon hid his grieving countenance in clouds.
Meanwhile, Halcyone, all unaware
of his sad wreck, counts off the passing nights
and hastens to prepare for him his clothes
that he may wear as soon as he returns to her;
and she is choosing what to wear herself,
and vainly promises his safe return—
all this indeed, while she in hallowed prayer
is giving frankincense to please the gods:
and first of loving adorations, she
paid at the shrine of Juno. There she prayed
for Ceyx—after he had suffered death,
that he might journey safely and return
and might love her above all other women,
this one last prayer alone was granted to her
but Juno could not long accept as hers
these supplications on behalf of one
then dead; and that she might persuade Halcyone
to turn her death-polluted hands away
from hallowed altars, Juno said in haste,
“O, Iris, best of all my messengers,
go quickly to the dreadful court of Sleep,
and in my name command him to despatch
a dream in the shape of Ceyx, who is dead,
and tell Halcyone the woeful truth.”
So she commanded.—Iris instantly
assumed a garment of a thousand tints;
and as she marked the high skies with her arch,
went swiftly thence as ordered, to the place
where Sleep was then concealed beneath a rock.

Near the Cimmerian Land there is a cave,
with a long entrance, in a hallowed mountain,
the home of slothful Sleep. To that dark cave
the Sun, when rising or in middle skies,
or setting, never can approach with light.
There dense fogs, mingled with the dark, exhale
darkness from the black soil—and all that place
is shadowed in a deep mysterious gloom.
No wakeful bird with visage crested high
calls forth the morning's beauty in clear notes;
nor do the watchful dogs, more watchful geese,
nor wild beasts, cattle, nor the waving trees,
make sound or whisper; and the human voice
is never heard there—silent Rest is there.
But, from the bottom of a rock beneath,
Lethean waters of a stream ooze forth,
sounds of a rivulet, which trickle with
soft murmuring amid the pebbles and
invite soft sleep. Before the cavern doors
most fertile poppies and a wealth of herbs
bloom in abundance, from the juice of which
the humid night-hours gather sleep and spread
it over darkened Earth. No door is in
that cavern-home and not a hinge's noise
nor guarding porter's voice disturbs the calm.
But in the middle is a resting-couch,
raised high on night-black ebony and soft
with feathered cushions, all jet black, concealed
by a rich coverlet as dark as night,
on which the god of sleep, dissolved in sloth
lies with unmoving limbs. Around him there
in all directions, unsubstantial dreams
recline in imitation of all shapes—
as many as the uncounted ears of corn
at harvest—as the myriad leaves of trees—
or tiny sand grains spread upon the shore.
As soon as Iris entered that dread gloom,
she pushed aside the visions in her way
with her fair glowing hands; and instantly,
that sacred cavern of the god of Sleep
was all illuminated with the glow
and splendor of her garment.—Out of himself
the god with difficulty lifted up
his lanquid eyes. From this small sign of life
relapsing many times to languid sloth,
while nodding, with his chin he struck his breast
again and again. At last he roused himself
from gloom and slumber; and, while raised upon
his elbow, he enquired of Iris why
she came to him.—He knew her by her name.
She answered him, “O, Sleep, divine repose
of all things! Gentlest of the deities!
Peace to the troubled mind, from which you drive
the cares of life, restorer of men's strength
when wearied with the toils of day, command
a vision that shall seem the actual form
of royal Ceyx to visit Trachin famed
for Hercules and tell Halcyone
his death by shipwreck. It is Juno's wish.”
Iris departed after this was said.
For she no longer could endure the effect
of slumber-vapor; and as soon as she
knew sleep was creeping over her tired limbs
she flew from there—and she departed by
the rainbow, over which she came before.
Out of the multitude—his thousand sons—
the god of sleep raised Morpheus by his power.
Most skillful of his sons, who had the art
of imitating any human shape;
and dexterously could imitate in men
the gait and countenance, and every mode
of speaking. He could simulate the dress
and customary words of any man
he chose to represent—but he could not
assume the form of anything but man.
Such was his art. Another of Sleep's sons
could imitate all kinds of animals;
such as a wild beast or a flying bird,
or even a serpent with its twisted shape;
and that son, by the gods above was called
Icelos—but the inhabitants of earth
called him Phobetor—and a third son, named
Phantasos, cleverly could change himself
into the forms of earth that have no life;
into a statue, water, or a tree.
It was the habit of these three to show
themselves at night to kings and generals;
and other sons would frequently appear
among the people of the common class.
All such the aged god of Sleep passed by.
Selecting only Morpheus from among
the many brothers to accomplish this,
and execute what Iris had desired.
And after all that work, he dropped his head,
and sank again in languid drowsiness,
shrinking to sloth within his lofty couch.
Morpheus at once flew through the night
of darkness, on his wings that make no sound,
and in brief space of intervening time,
arrived at the Haemonian city walls;
and there he laid aside his wings, and took
the face and form of Ceyx. In that form
as one deprived of life, devoid of clothes,
wan and ghastly, he stood beside the bed
of the sad wife. The hero's beard seemed dripping,
sea water streamed down from his drenching hair.
Then leaning on the bed, while dropping tears
were running down his cheeks, he said these words:
“Most wretched wife, can you still recognize
your own loved Ceyx, or have my looks changed:
so much with death you can not?—Look at me,
and you will be assured I am your own:
but here instead of your dear husband, you
will find only his ghost. Your faithful prayers
did not avail, Halcyone, and I
have perished. Give up all deluding hopes
of my return. The stormy Southwind caught
my ship while sailing the Aegean sea;
and there, tossed by the mighty wind, my ship
was dashed to pieces. While I vainly called
upon your name, the angry waters closed
above my drowning head and it is no
uncertain messenger that tells you this
and nothing from vague rumors has been told.
But it is I myself, come from the wreck,
now telling you my fate. Come then, arise
shed tears, and put on mourning; do not send
me unlamented, down to Tartarus.”
And Morpheus added to these words a voice
which she would certainly believe was her
beloved husband's; and he seemed to be
shedding fond human tears; and even his hands
were moved in gestures that Ceyx often used.
Halcyone shed tears and groaned aloud,
and, as she moved her arms and caught at his
dear body, she embraced the vacant air
she cried out loudly, “Stay, oh stay with me!
Why do you hurry from me? We will go
together!” Agitated by her own
excited voice; and by what seemed to be
her own dear husband, she awoke from sleep.
And first looked all about her to persuade
herself that he whom she had lately seen
must yet be with her, for she had aroused
the servants who in haste brought lights desired.
When she could find him nowhere, in despair
she struck her face and tore her garment from
her breast and beat her breast with mourning hands.
She did not wait to loosen her long hair;
but tore it with her hands and to her nurse,
who asked the cause of her wild grief, she cried:
“Alas, Halcyone is no more! no more!
with her own Ceyx she is dead! is dead!
Away with words of comfort, he is lost
by shipwreck! I have seen him, and I knew
him surely—as a ghost he came to me;
and when desirous to detain him, I
stretched forth my arms to him, his ghost left me—
it vanished from me; but it surely was
the ghost of my dead husband. If you ask
description of it, I must truly say
he did not have his well known features—he
was not so cheerful as he was in life!
Alas, I saw him pale and naked, with
his hair still dripping—his ghost from the waves
stood on this very spot:” and while she moaned
she sought his footprints on the floor. “Alas,
this was my fear, and this is what my mind
shuddered to think of, when I begged that you
would not desert me for the wind's control.
But how I wish, since you were sailing forth
to perish, that you had but taken me
with you. If I had gone with you, it would
have been advantage to me, for I should
have shared the whole course of my life with you
and you would not have met a separate death.
I linger here but I have met my death,
I toss on waves, and drift upon the sea.
“My heart would be more cruel than the waves,
if it should ask me to endure this life—
if I should struggle to survive such grief.
I will not strive nor leave you so forlorn,
at least I'll follow you to death. If not
the urn at least the lettered stone
shall keep us still together. If your bones
are not united with my bones, 'tis sure
our names must be united.”Overcome
with grief, she could not say another word—
but she continued wailing, and her groans
were heaved up from her sorrow-stricken breast.
At early dawn, she went from her abode
down to the seashore, where most wretchedly,
she stood upon the spot from which he sailed,
and sadly said; “He lingered here while he
was loosening the cables, and he kissed
me on this seashore when he left me here.”
And while she called to recollection all
that she had seen when standing there, and while
she looked far out on flowing waves from there,
she noticed floating on the distant sea—
what shall I say? At first even she could not
be sure of what she saw. But presently
although still distant—it was certainly
a floating corpse. She could not see what man
he might be, but because it seemed to her
it surely was a shipwrecked body, she
was moved as at an omen and began
to weep; and, moaning as she stood there, said:—
“Ah wretched one, whoever it may be,
ah, wretched is the wife whom you have left!”
As driven by the waves the body came
still nearer to her, she was less and less
the mistress of herself, the more she looked
upon it; and, when it was close enough
for her to see its features, she beheld
her husband. “It is he,” she cried and then
she tore her face, her hair, her royal robe
and then, extending both her trembling hands
towards Ceyx, “So dearest one! So do you come
to me again?” She cried, “O luckless mate.”
A mole, made by the craft of man, adjoins
the sea and breaks the shoreward rush of waves.
To this she leaped—it seemed impossible—
and then, while beating the light air with wings
that instant formed upon her, she flew on,
a mourning bird, and skimmed above the waves.
And while she lightly flew across the sea
her clacking mouth with its long slender bill,
full of complaining, uttered moaning sounds:
but when she touched the still and pallied form,
embracing his dear limbs with her new wings,
she gave cold kisses with her hardened bill.
All those who saw it doubted whether Ceyx
could feel her kisses; and it seemed to them
the moving waves had raised his countenance.
But he was truly conscious of her grief;
and through the pity of the gods above,
at last they both were changed to flying birds,
together in their fate. Their love lived on,
nor in these birds were marriage bonds dissolved,
and they soon coupled and were parent birds.
Each winter during seven full days of calm
Halcyone broods on her floating nest—
her nest that sails upon a halcyon sea:
the passage of the deep is free from storms,
throughout those seven full days; and Aeolus
restraining harmful winds, within their cave,
for his descendants' sake gives halcyon seas.

An old man saw the two birds fly across
the wide extended sea and praised their love,
undying to the end. His old friend who
stood near him, said, “There is another bird,
which you can see skimming above the waves
with folded legs drawn up;” and as he spoke,
he pointed at a divedapper, which had
a long throat, and continued, “It was first
the son of a great king, as Ceyx, was:
and if you wish to know his ancestry,
I can assure you he descended from
Ilus, Assaracus, and Ganymede—
taken by Jupiter, and old Laomedon,
and Priam, ruler at the fall of Troy.
“Aesacus was the brother of the great
illustrious Hector; and, if he had not
been victimized by a strange fate in youth,
he would have equalled Hector's glorious fame,
Hector was child of Hecuba, who was
daughter of Dymas. Alexirhoe,
the daughter of the two-horned Granicus,
so rumor has it, secretly brought forth
Aesacus, hidden under Ida's shade.
“He loathed the city and away from court,
frequented lonely mountains and the fields
of unambitious peasants. Rarely he
was seen among the throngs of Ilium.—
yet, neither churlish nor impregnable
to love's appeal, he saw Hesperia,
the daughter of Cebrenus, while she was
once resting on the velvet-shaded banks
of her sire's cherished stream. Aesacus had
so often sought for her throughout the woods.
“Just when he saw her, while she rested there,
her hair spread on her shoulders to the sun,
she saw him, and without delay she fled,
even as the frightened deer runs from the wolf
or as the water-duck, when she has left
her favored stream, surprised, flies from the hawk.
Aesacus followed her, as swift with love
as she was swift with fear. But in the grass
a lurking snake struck at her rosy heel
and left its venom in her flesh.—And so,
her flight was ended by untimely death.
“Oh, frantic, he embraced her breathless form,
and cried: ‘Alas, alas, that I pursued!
I did not dream of such a dreadful fate!
Success was not worth such a price
I and the snake together caused your death—
the serpent gave the wound, I was the cause.
Mine is the greater guilt, and by my death
I'll give you consolation for your death!’ ”
“He said those words and leaped on a high rock,
which years of sounding waves had undermined,
and hurled himself into the sea below.
“Tethys was moved with pity for his fall,
received him softly, and then covered him
with feathers, as he swam among the waves.
The death he sought for was not granted him.
At this the lover was wroth. Against his will,
he was obliged to live in his distress,
with opposition to his spirit that desired
departure from the wretched pain of life.
“As he assumed upon his shoulders wings
newformed, he flew aloft and from that height
again he plunged his body in the waves
his feathers broke all danger of that fall—
and this new bird, Aesacus, plunged headlong
into the deep, and tried incessantly
that method of destruction. His great love
unsatisfied, made his sad body lean,
till even the spaces fixed between the joints
of his legs have grown long; his neck is long;
so that his head is far away from his
lean body. Still he hunts the sea
and takes his name from diving in the waves.

Sadly his father, Priam, mourned for him,
not knowing that young Aesacus had assumed
wings on his shoulders, and was yet alive.
Then also Hector with his brothers made
complete but unavailing sacrifice,
upon a tomb which bore his carved name.
Paris was absent. But soon afterwards,
he brought into that land a ravished wife,
Helen, the cause of a disastrous war,
together with a thousand ships, and all
the great Pelasgian nation.
Vengeance would
not long have been delayed, but the fierce winds
raged over seas impassable, and held
the ships at fishy Aulis. They could not
be moved from the Boeotian land. Here, when
a sacrifice had been prepared to Jove,
according to the custom of their land,
and when the ancient altar glowed with fire,
the Greeks observed an azure colored snake
crawling up in a plane tree near the place
where they had just begun their sacrifice.
Among the highest branches was a nest,
with twice four birds—and those the serpent seized
together with the mother-bird as she
was fluttering round her loss. And every bird
the serpent buried in his greedy maw.
All stood amazed: but Calchas, who perceived
the truth, exclaimed, “Rejoice Pelasgian men,
for we shall conquer; Troy will fall; although
the toil of war must long continue—so
the nine birds equal nine long years of war.”
And while he prophesied, the serpent, coiled
about the tree, was transformed to a stone,
curled crooked as a snake.
but Nereus stormed
in those Aonian waves, and not a ship
moved forward. Some declared that Neptune thus
was aiding Troy, because he built the walls
of that great city. Not so Calchas, son
of Thestor! He knew all the truth, and told
them plainly that a virgin's blood
alone might end a virgin goddess' wrath.
The public good at last prevailed above
affection, and the duty of a king
at last proved stronger than a father's love:
when Iphigenia as a sacrifice,
stood by the altar with her weeping maids
and was about to offer her chaste blood,
the goddess, moved by pity, spread a mist
before their eyes, amid the sacred rites
and mournful supplications. It is said
she left a hind there in the maiden's place
and carried Iphigenia away. The hind,
as it was fitting, calmed Diana's rage
and also calmed the anger of the sea.
The thousand ships received the winds astern
and gained the Phrygian shore.
There is a spot
convenient in the center of the world,
between the land and sea and the wide heavens,
the meeting of the threefold universe.
From there is seen all things that anywhere
exist, although in distant regions far;
and there all sounds of earth and space are heard.
Fame is possessor of this chosen place,
and has her habitation in a tower,
which aids her view from that exalted highs.
And she has fixed there numerous avenues,
and openings, a thousand, to her tower
and no gates with closed entrance, for the house
is open, night and day, of sounding brass,
reechoing the tones of every voice.
It must repeat whatever it may hear;
and there's no rest, and silence in no part.
There is no clamor; but the murmuring sound
of subdued voices, such as may arise
from waves of a far sea, which one may hear
who listens at a distance; or the sound
which ends a thunderclap, when Jupiter
has clashed black clouds together. Fickle crowds
are always in that hall, that come and go,
and myriad rumors—false tales mixed with true—
are circulated in confusing words.
Some fill their empty ears with all this talk,
and some spread elsewhere all that's told to them.
The volume of wild fiction grows apace,
and each narrator adds to what he hears.
Credulity is there and rash Mistake,
and empty Joy, and coward Fear alarmed
by quick Sedition, and soft Whisper—all
of doubtful life. Fame sees what things are done
in heaven and on the sea, and on the earth.
She spies all things in the wide universe.

Fame now had spread the tidings, a great fleet
of Greek ships was at that time on its way,
an army of brave men. The Trojans stood,
all ready to prevent the hostile Greeks
from landing on their shores. By the decree
of Fate, the first man killed of the invaders' force
was strong Protesilaus, by the spear
of valiant Hector, whose unthought-of power
at that time was discovered by the Greeks
to their great cost. The Phyrgians also learned,
at no small cost of blood, what warlike strength
came from the Grecian land. The Sigean shores
grew red with death-blood: Cygnus, Neptune's son,
there slew a thousand men: for which, in wrath,
Achilles pressed his rapid chariot
straight through the Trojan army; making a lane
with his great spear, shaped from a Pelion tree.
And as he sought through the fierce battle's press,
either for Cygnus or for Hector, he
met Cygnus and engaged at once with him
(Fate had preserved great Hector from such foe
till ten years from that day).
Cheering his steeds,
their white necks pressed upon the straining yoke,
he steered the chariot towards his foe,
and, brandishing the spear with his strong arm,
he cried, “Whoever you may be, you have
the consolation of a glorious death
you die by me, Haemonian Achilles!”
His heavy spear flew after the fierce words.
Although the spear was whirled direct and true,
yet nothing it availed with sharpened point.
It only bruised, as with a blunted stroke,
the breast of Cygnus! “By report we knew
of you before this battle, goddess born.”
The other answered him, “But why are you
surprised that I escape the threatened wound?”
(Achilles was surprised). “This helmet crowned,
great with its tawny horse-hair, and this shield,
broad-hollowed, on my left arm, are not held
for help in war: they are but ornament,
as Mars wears armor. All of them shall be
put off, and I will fight with you unhurt.
It is a privilege that I was born
not as you, of a Nereid but of him
whose powerful rule is over Nereus,
his daughters and their ocean.” So, he spoke.
Immediately he threw his spear against Achilles,
destined to pierce the curving shield through brass,
and through nine folds of tough bull's hide.
It stopped there, for it could not pierce the tenth.
The hero wrenched it out, and hurled again
a quivering spear at Cygnus, with great strength.
The Trojan stood unwounded and unharmed.
Nor did a third spear injure Cygnus, though
he stood there with his body all exposed.
Achilles raged at this, as a wild bull
in open circus, when with dreadful horns
he butts against the hanging purple robes
which stir his wrath and there observes how they
evade him, quite unharmed by his attack.
Achilles then examined his good spear,
to see if by some chance the iron point
was broken from it, but the point was firm,
fixed on the wooden shaft. “My hand is weak,”
he said, “but is it possible its strength
forsook me though it never has before?
For surely I had my accustomed strength,
when first I overthrew Lyrnessus' walls,
or when I won the isle of Tenedos
or Thebes (then under King Eetion)
and I drenched both with their own peoples' blood,
or when the river Caycus ran red
with slaughter of its people, or, when twice
Telephus felt the virtue of my spear.
On this field also, where such heaps lie slain,
my right hand surely has proved its true might;
and it is mighty.”
So he spoke of strength,
remembered. But as if in proof against
his own distrust, he hurled a spear against
Menoetes, a soldier in the Lycian ranks.
The sharp spear tore the victim's coat of mail
and pierced his breast beneath. Achilles, when
he saw his dying head strike on the earth
wrenched the same spear from out the reeking wound,
and said, “This is the hand, and this the spear
I conquered with; and I will use the same
against him who in luck escaped their power;
and the result should favor as I pray
the helpful gods.”
And, as he said such words,
in haste he hurled his ashen spear, again
at Cygnus. It went straight and struck unshunned.
Resounding on the shoulder of that foe,
it bounced back as if it hit a wall
or solid cliff. Yet when Achilles saw
just where the spear struck, Cygnus there
was stained with blood. He instantly rejoiced;
but vainly, for it was Menoetes' blood!
Then in a sudden rage, Achilles leaped
down headlong from his lofty chariot;
and, seeking his god-favored foe, he struck
in conflict fiercely, with his gleaming sword.
Although he saw that he had pierced both shield
and helmet through, he did not harm the foe—
his sword was even blunted on the flesh.
Achilles could not hold himself for rage,
but furious, with his sword-hilt and his shield
he battered wildly the uncovered face
and hollow-temples of his Trojan foe.
Cygnus gave way; Achilles rushed on him,
buffeting fiercely, so that he could not
recover from the shock. Fear seized upon
Cygnus, and darkness swam before his eyes.
Then, as he moved back with retreating steps,
a large stone hindered him and blocked his way.
His back pushed against this, Achilles seized
and dashed him violently to the ground.
Then pressing with buckler and hard knees the breast
of Cygnus, he unlaced the helmet thongs,
wound them about the foeman's neck and drew
them tightly under his chin, till Cygnus' throat
could take no breath of life. Achilles rose
eager to strip his conquered foe but found
his empty armor, for the god of ocean
had changed the victim into that white bird
whose name he lately bore.

There was a truce
for many days after this opening fight
while both sides resting, laid aside their arms.
A watchful guard patroled the Phrygian walls;
the Grecian trenches had their watchful guard.
Then, on a festal day, Achilles gave
the blood of a slain heifer to obtain
the favor of Athena for their cause.
The entrails burned upon the altar, while
the odor, grateful to the deities,
was mounting to the skies. When sacred rites
were done, a banquet for the heroes was
served on their tables. There the Grecian chiefs
reclined on couches; while they satisfied
themselves with roasted flesh, and banished cares:
and thirst with wine. Nor harp nor singing voice
nor long pipe made of boxwood pierced with holes,
delighted them. They talked of their own deeds
and valor, all that thrilling night: and even
the strength of enemies whom they had met
and overcome. What else could they admit
or think of, while the great Achilles spoke
or listened to them? But especially
the recent victory over Cygnus held
them ardent. Wonderful it seemed to them
that such a youth could be composed of flesh
not penetrable by the sharpest spear;
of flesh which blunted even hardened steel,
and never could be wounded. All the Greeks,
and even Achilles wondered at the thought.
Then Nestor said to them: “During your time,
Cygnus has been the only man you knew
who could despise all weapons and whose flesh
could not be pierced by thrust of sword or spear.
But long ago I saw another man
able to bear unharmed a thousand strokes,
Caeneus of Thessaly, Caeneus who lived
upon Mt. Othrys. He was famed in war
yet, strange to say, by birth he was a woman!”
Then all expressed the greatest wonderment,
and begged to hear the story of his life.
Achilles cried, “O eloquent old man!
The wisdom of our age! All of us wish
to hear, who was this Caeneus? Why was he
changed to the other sex? in what campaigns,
and in what wars was he so known to you?
Who conquered him, if any ever did?”
The aged man replied to them with care:—
“Although my great age is a harm to me,
and many actions of my early days
escape my memory; yet, most of them
are well remembered. Nothing of old days,
amid so many deeds of war and peace,
can be more firmly fixed upon my mind
than the strange story I shall tell of him.
“If long extent of years made anyone
a witness of most wonderful events
and many, truly I may say to you
that I have lived two hundred years; and now
have entered my third century.
The daughter of Elatus, Caenis, was
remarkable for charm—most beautiful
of all Thessalian maidens—many sighed
for her in vain through all the neighboring towns
and yours, Achilles, for that was her home.
But Peleus did not try to win her love,
for he was either married at that time
to your dear mother, or was pledged to her.
“Caenis never became the willing bride
of any suitor; but report declares,
while she was walking on a lonely shore,
the god of ocean saw and ravished her.
And in the joy of that love Neptune said,
‘Request of me whatever you desire,
and nothing shall deny your dearest wish!’—
the story tells us that he made this pledge.
And Caenis said to Neptune, ‘The great wrong,
which I have suffered from you justifies
the wonderful request that I must make;
I ask that I may never suffer such
an injury again. Grant I may be
no longer woman, and I'll ask no more.’
while she was speaking to him, the last words
of her strange prayer were uttered in so deep,
in such a manly tone, it seemed indeed
they must be from a man.—That was a fact:
Neptune not only had allowed her prayer
but made the new man proof against all wounds
of spear or sword. Rejoicing in the gift
he went his way as Caeneus Atracides,
spent years in every manful exercise,
and roamed the plains of northern Thessaly.