Metamorphoses

Ovid

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

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.