Metamorphoses

Ovid

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

Now Jupiter had not revealed himself,
nor laid aside the semblance of a bull,
until they stood upon the plains of Crete.
But not aware of this, her father bade
her brother Cadmus search through all the world,
until he found his sister, and proclaimed
him doomed to exile if he found her not;—
thus was he good and wicked in one deed.
When he had vainly wandered over the earth
(for who can fathom the deceits of Jove?)
Cadmus, the son of King Agenor, shunned
his country and his father's mighty wrath.
But he consulted the famed oracles
of Phoebus, and enquired of them what land
might offer him a refuge and a home.
And Phoebus answered him; “When on the plains
a heifer, that has never known the yoke,
shall cross thy path go thou thy way with her,
and follow where she leads; and when she lies,
to rest herself upon the meadow green,
there shalt thou stop, as it will be a sign
for thee to build upon that plain the walls
of a great city: and its name shall be
the City of Boeotia.”
Cadmus turned;
but hardly had descended from the cave,
Castalian, ere he saw a heifer go
unguarded, gentle-paced, without the scars
of labour on her neck. He followed close
upon her steps (and silently adored
celestial Phoebus, author of his way)
till over the channel that Cephissus wears
he forded to the fields of Panope
and even over to Boeotia.—
there stood the slow-paced heifer, and she raised
her forehead, broad with shapely horns, towards Heaven;
and as she filled the air with lowing, stretched
her side upon the tender grass, and turned
her gaze on him who followed in her path.
Cadmus gave thanks and kissed the foreign soil,
and offered salutation to the fields
and unexplored hills. Then he prepared
to make large sacrifice to Jupiter,
and ordered slaves to seek the living springs
whose waters in libation might be poured.
There was an ancient grove, whose branching trees
had never known the desecrating ax,
where hidden in the undergrowth a cave,
with oziers bending round its low-formed arch,
was hollowed in the jutting rocks—deep-found
in the dark center of that hallowed grove—
beneath its arched roof a beauteous stream
of water welled serene. Its gloom concealed
a dragon, sacred to the war-like Mars;
crested and gorgeous with radescent scales,
and eyes that sparkled as the glow of coals.
A deadly venom had puffed up his bulk,
and from his jaws he darted forth three tongues,
and in a triple row his sharp teeth stood.
Now those who ventured of the Tyrian race,
misfortuned followers of Cadmus, took
the path that led them to this grove; and when
they cast down-splashing in the springs an urn,
the hidden dragon stretched his azure head
out from the cavern's gloom, and vented forth
terrific hissings. Horrified they dropped
their urns. A sudden trembling shook their knees;
and their life-blood was ice within their veins.
The dragon wreathed his scales in rolling knots,
and with a spring, entwisted in great folds,
reared up his bulk beyond the middle rings,
high in the air from whence was given his gaze
the extreme confines of the grove below.
A size prodigious, his enormous bulk,
if seen extended where was naught to hide,
would rival in its length the Serpent's folds,
involved betwixt the planes of the Twin Bears.
The terrified Phoenicians, whether armed
for conflict, or in flight precipitate,
or whether held incapable from fear,
he seized with sudden rage; stung them to death,
or crushed them in the grasp of crushing folds,
or blasted with the poison of his breath.
High in the Heavens the sun small shadow made
when Cadmus, wondering what detained his men,
prepared to follow them. Clothed in a skin
torn from a lion, he was armed, complete,
with lance of glittering steel; and with a dart:
but passing these he had a dauntless soul.
When he explored the grove and there beheld
the lifeless bodies, and above them stretched
the vast victorious dragon licking up
the blood that issued from their ghastly wounds;
his red tongues dripping gore; then Cadmus filled
with rage and grief; “Behold, my faithful ones!
I will avenge your deaths or I will share it!”
He spoke; and lifted up a mill-stone huge,
in his right hand, and having poised it, hurled
with a tremendous effort dealing such
a blow would crush the strongest builded walls;
yet neither did the dragon flinch the shock
nor was he wounded, for his armour-scales,
fixed in his hard and swarthy hide, repelled
the dreadful impact. Not the javelin thus,
so surely by his armoured skin was foiled,
for through the middle segment of his spine
the steel point pierced, and sank beneath the flesh,
deep in his entrails. Writhing in great pain
he turned his head upon his bleeding back,
twisting the shaft, with force prodigious shook
it back and forth, and wrenched it from the wound;
with difficulty wrenched it. But the steel
remained securely fastened in his bones.
Such agony but made increase of rage:
his throat was swollen with great knotted veins;
a white froth gathered on his poisonous jaws;
the earth resounded with his rasping scales;
he breathed upon the grass a pestilence,
steaming mephitic from his Stygian mouth.
His body writhes up in tremendous gyres;
his folds, now straighter than a beam, untwist;
he rushes forward on his vengeful foe,
his great breast crushing the deep-rooted trees.
Small space gave Cadmus to the dragon's rage,
for by the lion's spoil he stood the shock,
and thrusting in his adversary's jaws
the trusted lance gave check his mad career.
Wild in his rage the dragon bit the steel
and fixed his teeth on the keen-biting point:
out from his poisoned palate streams of gore
spouted and stained the green with sanguine spray.
Yet slight the wound for he recoiled in time,
and drew his wounded body from the spear;
by shrinking from the sharp steel saved his throat
a mortal wound. But Cadmus as he pressed
the spear-point deeper in the serpent's throat,
pursued him till an oak-tree barred the way;
to this he fixed the dragon through the neck:
the stout trunk bending with the monster's weight,
groaned at the lashing of his serpent tail.

While the brave victor gazed upon the bulk
enormous of his vanquished foe, a voice
was heard—from whence was difficult to know,
but surely heard—“Son of Agenor, why
art thou here standing by this carcase-worm,
for others shall behold thy body changed
into a serpent?” Terrified, amazed,
he lost his colour and his self-control;
his hair stood upright from the dreadful fright.
But lo, the hero's watchful Deity,
Minerva, from the upper realms of air
appeared before him. She commanded him
to sow the dragon's teeth in mellowed soil,
from which might spring another race of men.
And he obeyed: and as he plowed the land,
took care to scatter in the furrowed soil
the dragon's teeth; a seed to raise up man.
'Tis marvelous but true, when this was done
the clods began to move. A spear-point first
appeared above the furrows, followed next
by helmet-covered heads, nodding their cones;
their shoulders, breasts and arms weighted with spears;
and largely grew the shielded crop of men.—
so is it in the joyful theaters
when the gay curtains, rolling from the floor,
are upward drawn until the scene is shown,—
it seems as if the figures rise to view:
first we behold their faces, then we see
their bodies, and their forms by slow degrees
appear before us on the painted cloth.
Cadmus, affrighted by this host, prepared
to arm for his defence; but one of those
from earth created cried; “Arm not! Away
from civil wars!” And with his trenchant sword
he smote an earth-born brother, hand to hand;
even as the vanquished so the victor fell,
pierced by a dart some distant brother hurled;
and likewise he who cast that dart was slain:
both breathing forth their lives upon the air
so briefly theirs, expired together. All
as if demented leaped in sudden rage,
each on the other, dealing mutual wounds.
So, having lived the space allotted them,
the youthful warriors perished as they smote
the earth (their blood-stained mother) with their breasts:
and only five of all the troop remained;
of whom Echion, by Minerva warned,
called on his brothers to give up the fight,
and cast his arms away in pledge of faith.—
when Cadmus, exiled from Sidonia's gates,
builded the city by Apollo named,
these five were trusted comrades in his toil.
Now Thebes is founded, who can deem thy days
unhappy in shine exile, Cadmus? Thou,
the son-in-law of Mars and Venus; thou,
whose glorious wife has borne to shine embrace
daughters and sons? And thy grandchildren join
around thee, almost grown to man's estate.—
nor should we say, “He leads a happy life,”
Till after death the funeral rites are paid.

Thy grandson, Cadmus, was the first to cast
thy dear felicity in sorrow's gloom.
Oh, it was pitiful to witness him,
his horns outbranching from his forehead, chased
by dogs that panted for their master's blood!
If thou shouldst well inquire it will be shown
his sorrow was the crime of Fortune—not
his guilt—for who maintains mistakes are crimes?
Upon a mountain stained with slaughtered game,
the young Hyantian stood. Already day,
increasing to meridian, made decrease
the flitting shadows, and the hot sun shone
betwixt extremes in equal distance. Such
the hour, when speaking to his fellow friends,
the while they wandered by those lonely haunts,
actaeon of Hyantis kindly thus;
“Our nets and steel are stained with slaughtered game,
the day has filled its complement of sport;
now, when Aurora in her saffron car
brings back the light of day, we may again
repair to haunts of sport. Now Phoebus hangs
in middle sky, cleaving the fields with heat.—
enough of toil; take down the knotted nets.”—
all did as he commanded; and they sought
their needed rest.
There is a valley called
Gargaphia; sacred to Diana, dense
with pine trees and the pointed cypress, where,
deep in the woods that fringed the valley's edge,
was hollowed in frail sandstone and the soft
white pumice of the hills an arch, so true
it seemed the art of man; for Nature's touch
ingenious had so fairly wrought the stone,
making the entrance of a grotto cool.
Upon the right a limpid fountain ran,
and babbled, as its lucid channel spread
into a clear pool edged with tender grass.
Here, when a-wearied with exciting sport,
the Sylvan goddess loved to come and bathe
her virgin beauty in the crystal pool.
After Diana entered with her nymphs,
she gave her javelin, quiver and her bow
to one accustomed to the care of arms;
she gave her mantle to another nymph
who stood near by her as she took it off;
two others loosed the sandals from her feet;
but Crocale, the daughter of Ismenus,
more skillful than her sisters, gathered up
the goddess' scattered tresses in a knot;—
her own were loosely wantoned on the breeze.
Then in their ample urns dipt up the wave
and poured it forth, the cloud-nymph Nephele,
the nymph of crystal pools called Hyale,
the rain-drop Rhanis, Psecas of the dews,
and Phyale the guardian of their urns.
And while they bathed Diana in their streams,
Actaeon, wandering through the unknown woods,
entered the precincts of that sacred grove;
with steps uncertain wandered he as fate
directed, for his sport must wait till morn.—
soon as he entered where the clear springs welled
or trickled from the grotto's walls, the nymphs,
now ready for the bath, beheld the man,
smote on their breasts, and made the woods resound,
suddenly shrieking. Quickly gathered they
to shield Diana with their naked forms, but she
stood head and shoulders taller than her guards.—
as clouds bright-tinted by the slanting sun,
or purple-dyed Aurora, so appeared
Diana's countenance when she was seen.
Oh, how she wished her arrows were at hand!
But only having water, this she took
and dashed it on his manly countenance,
and sprinkled with the avenging stream his hair,
and said these words, presage of future woe;
“Go tell it, if your tongue can tell the tale,
your bold eyes saw me stripped of all my robes.”
No more she threatened, but she fixed the horns
of a great stag firm on his sprinkled brows;
she lengthened out his neck; she made his ears
sharp at the top; she changed his hands and feet;
made long legs of his arms, and covered him
with dappled hair—his courage turned to fear.
The brave son of Autonoe took to flight,
and marveled that he sped so swiftly on.—
he saw his horns reflected in a stream
and would have said, “Ah, wretched me!” but now
he had no voice, and he could only groan:
large tears ran trickling down his face, transformed
in every feature.—Yet, as clear remained
his understanding, and he wondered what
he should attempt to do: should he return
to his ancestral palace, or plunge deep
in vast vacuities of forest wilds?
Fear made him hesitate to trust the woods,
and shame deterred him from his homeward way.
While doubting thus his dogs espied him there:
first Blackfoot and the sharp nosed Tracer raised
the signal: Tracer of the Gnossian breed,
and Blackfoot of the Spartan: swift as wind
the others followed. Glutton, Quicksight, Surefoot,
three dogs of Arcady; then valiant Killbuck,
Tempest, fierce Hunter, and the rapid Wingfoot;
sharp-scented Chaser, and Woodranger wounded
so lately by a wild boar; savage Wildwood,
the wolf-begot with Shepherdess the cow-dog;
and ravenous Harpy followed by her twin whelps;
and thin-girt Ladon chosen from Sicyonia;
racer and Barker, brindled Spot and Tiger;
sturdy old Stout and white haired Blanche and black Smut
lusty big Lacon, trusty Storm and Quickfoot;
active young Wolfet and her Cyprian brother
black headed Snap, blazed with a patch of white hair
from forehead to his muzzle; swarthy Blackcoat
and shaggy Bristle, Towser and Wildtooth,
his sire of Dicte and his dam of Lacon;
and yelping Babbler: these and others, more
than patience leads us to recount or name.
All eager for their prey the pack surmount
rocks, cliffs and crags, precipitous—where paths
are steep, where roads are none. He flies by routes
so oft pursued but now, alas, his flight
is from his own!—He would have cried, “Behold
your master!—It is I—Actaeon!” Words
refused his will. The yelping pack pressed on.
First Blackmane seized and tore his master's back,
Savage the next, then Rover's teeth were clinched
deep in his shoulder.—These, though tardy out,
cut through a by-path and arriving first
clung to their master till the pack came up.
The whole pack fastened on their master's flesh
till place was none for others. Groaning he
made frightful sounds that not the human voice
could utter nor the stag; and filled the hills
with dismal moans; and as a suppliant fell
down to the ground upon his trembling knees;
and turned his stricken eyes on his own dogs,
entreating them to spare him from their fangs.
But his companions, witless of his plight,
urged on the swift pack with their hunting cries.
They sought Actaeon and they vainly called,
“Actaeon! Hi! Actaeon!” just as though
he was away from them. Each time they called
he turned his head. And when they chided him,
whose indolence denied the joys of sport,
how much he wished an indolent desire
had haply held him from his ravenous pack.
Oh, how much;better 'tis to see the hunt,
and the fierce dogs, than feel their savage deeds!
They gathered round him, and they fixed their snouts
deep in his flesh: tore him to pieces, he
whose features only as a stag appeared.—
'Tis said Diana's fury raged with none
abatement till the torn flesh ceased to live.

Hapless Actaeon's end in various ways
was now regarded; some deplored his doom,
but others praised Diana's chastity;
and all gave many reasons. But the spouse
of Jove, alone remaining silent, gave
nor praise nor blame. Whenever calamity
befell the race of Cadmus she rejoiced,
in secret, for she visited her rage
on all Europa's kindred.
Now a fresh
occasion has been added to her grief,
and wild with jealousy of Semele,
her tongue as ever ready to her rage,
lets loose a torrent of abuse;
“Away!
Away with words! Why should I speak of it?
Let me attack her! Let me spoil that jade!
Am I not Juno the supreme of Heaven?
Queen of the flashing scepter? Am I not
sister and wife of Jove omnipotent?
She even wishes to be known by him
a mother of a Deity, a joy
almost denied to me! Great confidence
has she in her great beauty—nevertheless,
I shall so weave the web the bolt of Jove
would fail to save her.—Let the Gods deny
that I am Saturn's daughter, if her shade
descend not stricken to the Stygian wave.”
She rose up quickly from her shining throne,
and hidden in a cloud of fiery hue
descended to the home of Semele;
and while encompassed by the cloud, transformed
her whole appearance as to counterfeit
old Beroe, an Epidaurian nurse,
who tended Semele.
Her tresses changed
to grey, her smooth skin wrinkled and her step
grown feeble as she moved with trembling limbs;—
her voice was quavering as an ancient dame's,
as Juno, thus disguised, began to talk
to Semele. When presently the name
of Jove was mentioned—artful Juno thus;
(doubtful that Jupiter could be her love)—
“When Jove appears to pledge his love to you,
implore him to assume his majesty
and all his glory, even as he does
in presence of his stately Juno—Yea,
implore him to caress you as a God.”
With artful words as these the goddess worked
upon the trusting mind of Semele,
daughter of Cadmus, till she begged of Jove
a boon, that only hastened her sad death;
for Jove not knowing her design replied,
“Whatever thy wish, it shall not be denied,
and that thy heart shall suffer no distrust,
I pledge me by that Deity, the Waves
of the deep Stygian Lake,—oath of the Gods.”
All overjoyed at her misfortune, proud
that she prevailed, and pleased that she secured
of him a promise, that could only cause
her own disaster, Semele addressed
almighty Jove; “Come unto me in all
the splendour of thy glory, as thy might
is shown to Juno, goddess of the skies.”
Fain would he stifle her disastrous tongue;
before he knew her quest the words were said;
and, knowing that his greatest oath was pledged,
he sadly mounted to the lofty skies,
and by his potent nod assembled there
the deep clouds: and the rain began to pour,
and thunder-bolts resounded.
But he strove
to mitigate his power, and armed him not
with flames overwhelming as had put to flight
his hundred-handed foe Typhoeus—flames
too dreadful. Other thunder-bolts he took,
forged by the Cyclops of a milder heat,
with which insignia of his majesty,
sad and reluctant, he appeared to her.—
her mortal form could not endure the shock
and she was burned to ashes in his sight.
An unformed babe was rescued from her side,
and, nurtured in the thigh of Jupiter,
completed Nature's time until his birth.
Ino, his aunt, in secret nursed the boy
and cradled him. And him Nyseian nymphs
concealed in caves and fed with needful milk.