Metamorphoses
Ovid
Ovid. Metamorphoses. More, Brookes, translator. Boston: Cornhill Publishing Co., 1922.
- Nor food nor rest can draw him thence—outstretched
- upon the overshadowed green, his eyes
- fixed on the mirrored image never may know
- their longings satisfied, and by their sight
- he is himself undone. Raising himself
- a moment, he extends his arms around,
- and, beckoning to the murmuring forest; “Oh,
- ye aisled wood was ever man in love
- more fatally than I? Your silent paths
- have sheltered many a one whose love was told,
- and ye have heard their voices. Ages vast
- have rolled away since your forgotten birth,
- but who is he through all those weary years
- that ever pined away as I? Alas,
- this fatal image wins my love, as I
- behold it. But I cannot press my arms
- around the form I see, the form that gives
- me joy. What strange mistake has intervened
- betwixt us and our love? It grieves me more
- that neither lands nor seas nor mountains, no,
- nor walls with closed gates deny our loves,
- but only a little water keeps us far
- asunder. Surely he desires my love
- and my embraces, for as oft I strive
- to kiss him, bending to the limpid stream
- my lips, so often does he hold his face
- fondly to me, and vainly struggles up.
- It seems that I could touch him. 'Tis a strange
- delusion that is keeping us apart.
- “Whoever thou art, Come up! Deceive me not!
- Oh, whither when I fain pursue art thou?
- Ah, surely I am young and fair, the Nymphs
- have loved me; and when I behold thy smiles
- I cannot tell thee what sweet hopes arise.
- When I extend my loving arms to thee
- thine also are extended me — thy smiles
- return my own. When I was weeping, I
- have seen thy tears, and every sign I make
- thou cost return; and often thy sweet lips
- have seemed to move, that, peradventure words,
- which I have never heard, thou hast returned.
- “No more my shade deceives me, I perceive
- 'Tis I in thee—I love myself—the flame
- arises in my breast and burns my heart—
- what shall I do? Shall I at once implore?
- Or should I linger till my love is sought?
- What is it I implore? The thing that I
- desire is mine—abundance makes me poor.
- Oh, I am tortured by a strange desire
- unknown to me before, for I would fain
- put off this mortal form; which only means
- I wish the object of my love away.
- Grief saps my strength, the sands of life are run,
- and in my early youth am I cut off;
- but death is not my bane—it ends my woe.—
- I would not death for this that is my love,
- as two united in a single soul
- would die as one.”
- He spoke; and crazed with love,
- returned to view the same face in the pool;
- and as he grieved his tears disturbed the stream,
- and ripples on the surface, glassy clear,
- defaced his mirrored form. And thus the youth,
- when he beheld that lovely shadow go;
- “Ah whither cost thou fly? Oh, I entreat
- thee leave me not. Alas, thou cruel boy
- thus to forsake thy lover. Stay with me
- that I may see thy lovely form, for though
- I may not touch thee I shall feed my eyes
- and soothe my wretched pains.” And while he spoke
- he rent his garment from the upper edge,
- and beating on his naked breast, all white
- as marble, every stroke produced a tint
- as lovely as the apple streaked with red,
- or as the glowing grape when purple bloom
- touches the ripening clusters.
- When as glass
- again the rippling waters smoothed, and when
- such beauty in the stream the youth observed,
- no more could he endure. As in the flame
- the yellow wax, or as the hoar-frost melts
- in early morning 'neath the genial sun;
- so did he pine away, by love consumed,
- and slowly wasted by a hidden flame.
- No vermeil bloom now mingled in the white
- of his complexion fair; no strength has he,
- no vigor, nor the comeliness that wrought
- for love so long: alas, that handsome form
- by Echo fondly loved may please no more.
- But when she saw him in his hapless plight,
- though angry at his scorn, she only grieved.
- As often as the love-lore boy complained,
- “Alas!” “Alas!” her echoing voice returned;
- and as he struck his hands against his arms,
- she ever answered with her echoing sounds.
- And as he gazed upon the mirrored pool
- he said at last, “Ah, youth beloved in vain!”
- “In vain, in vain!” the spot returned his words;
- and when he breathed a sad “farewell!” “Farewell!”
- sighed Echo too. He laid his wearied head,
- and rested on the verdant grass; and those
- bright eyes, which had so loved to gaze, entranced,
- on their own master's beauty, sad Night closed.
- And now although among the nether shades
- his sad sprite roams, he ever loves to gaze
- on his reflection in the Stygian wave.
- His Naiad sisters mourned, and having clipped
- their shining tresses laid them on his corpse:
- and all the Dryads mourned: and Echo made
- lament anew. And these would have upraised
- his funeral pyre, and waved the flaming torch,
- and made his bier; but as they turned their eyes
- where he had been, alas he was not there!
- And in his body's place a sweet flower grew,
- golden and white, the white around the gold.