Metamorphoses

Ovid

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

Now when the valiant Argonauts returned
to Thessaly, their happy relatives,
fathers and mothers, praised the living Gods;
and with their hallowed gifts enhanced the flames
with precious incense; and they offered Jove
a sacred bullock, rich with gilded horns.
But Jason's father, Aeson, came not down
rejoicing to behold his son, for now
worn out with many years, he waited death.
And Jason to Medea grieving said:
“Dearest, to whom my life and love are due,
although your kindness has been great to me,
and you have granted more than I should ask,
yet one thing more I beg of you; if your
enchantments can accomplish my desire,
take from my life some years that I should live
and add them to my father's ending days.”—
And as he spoke he could not check his tears.
Medea, moved by his affection, thought
how much less she had grieved for her loved sire:
and she replied:—“A wicked thing you ask!
Can I be capable of using you
in such a manner as to take your life
and give it to another? Ask not me
a thing so dreadful! May the Gods forbid!—
I will endeavor to perform for you
a task much greater. By the powers of Night
I will most certainly return to him
the lost years of your father, but must not
deprive you of your own. — Oh grant the power,
great goddess of the triple form, that I
may fail not to accomplish this great deed!”
Three nights were wanting for the moon to join
her circling horns and form a perfect orb.
When these were passed, the rounded light shone full
and bright upon the earth.—Through the still night
alone, Medea stole forth from the house
with feet bare, and in flowing garment clothed—
her long hair unadorned and not confined.
Deep slumber has relaxed the world, and all
that's living, animals and birds and men,
and even the hedges and the breathing leaves
are still—and motionless the laden air.
Only the stars are twinkling, and to them
she looks and beckons with imploring hands.
Now thrice around she paces, and three times
besprinkles her long hair with water dipt
from crystal streams, which having done
she kneels a moment on the cold, bare ground,
and screaming three times calls upon the Night,—
“O faithful Night, regard my mysteries!
O golden-lighted Stars! O softly-moving Moon—
genial, your fire succeeds the heated day!
O Hecate! grave three-faced queen of these
charms of enchanters and enchanters, arts!
O fruitful Earth, giver of potent herbs!
O gentle Breezes and destructive Winds!
You Mountains, Rivers, Lakes and sacred Groves,
and every dreaded god of silent Night!
Attend upon me!—
“When my power commands,
the rivers turn from their accustomed ways
and roll far backward to their secret springs!
I speak—and the wild, troubled sea is calm,
and I command the waters to arise!
The clouds I scatter—and I bring the clouds;
I smooth the winds and ruffle up their rage;
I weave my spells and I recite my charms;
I pluck the fangs of serpents, and I move
the living rocks and twist the rooted oaks;
I blast the forests. Mountains at my word
tremble and quake; and from her granite tombs
the liberated ghosts arise as Earth
astonished groans! From your appointed ways,
O wonder-working Moon, I draw you down
against the magic-making sound of gongs
and brazen vessels of Temesa's ore;
I cast my spells and veil the jeweled rays
of Phoebus' wain, and quench Aurora's fires.
“At my command you tamed the flaming bulls
which long disdained to bend beneath the yoke,
until they pressed their necks against the plows;
and, subject to my will, you raised up war
till the strong company of dragon-birth
were slaughtered as they fought amongst themselves;
and, last, you lulled asleep the warden's eyes—
guards of the Golden Fleece—till then awake
and sleeping never—so, deceiving him,
you sent the treasure to the Grecian cities!
“Witness my need of super-natured herbs,
elixirs potent to renew the years of age,
giving the bloom of youth.—You shall not fail
to grant me this; for not in vain the stars
are flashing confirmation; not in vain
the flying dragons, harnessed by their necks,
from skies descending bring my chariot down.”
A chariot, sent from heaven, came to her—
and soon as she had stroked the dragons' necks,
and shaken in her hands the guiding reins—
as soon as she had mounted, she was borne
quickly above, through unresisting air.
And, sailing over Thessaly, she saw
the vale of Tempe, where the level soil
is widely covered with a crumbling chalk—
she turned her dragons towards new regions there:
and she observed the herbs by Ossa born,
the weeds on lofty Pelion, Othrys, Pindus
and vast Olympus—and from here she plucked
the needed roots, or there, the blossoms clipped
all with a moon-curved sickle made of brass—
many the wild weeds by Apidanus,
as well as blue Amphrysus' banks, she chose,
and not escaped Enipeus from her search;
Peneian stretches and Spercheian banks
all yielded what she chose:—and Boebe's shore
where sway the rushes; and she plucked up grass,
a secret grass, from fair Euboean fields
life-giving virtues in their waving blades,
as yet unknown for transformation wrought
on Glaucus.
All those fields she visited,
with ceaseless diligence in quest of charms,
nine days and nine nights sought strong herbs,
and the swift dragons with their active wings,
failed not to guide the chariot where she willed—
until they reached her home. The dragons then
had not been even touched by anything,
except the odor of surrounding herbs,
and yet they sloughed their skins, the growth of years.

She would not cross the threshold of her home
nor pass its gates; but, standing in the field,
alone beneath the canopy of Heaven,
she shunned all contact with her husband, while
she built up from the ever-living turf
two altars, one of which upon the right
to Hecate was given, but the one
upon the left was sacred then to you,
O Hebe, goddess of eternal youth!
Festooning woodland boughs and sweet vervain
adorned these altars, near by which she dug
as many trenches. Then, when all was done,
she slaughtered a black ram, and sprinkled with blood
the thirsty trenches; after which she poured
from rich carchesian goblets generous wine
and warm milk, grateful to propitious Gods—
the Deities of earth on whom she called—
entreating, as she did so, Pluto, lord
of ghostly shades, and ravished Proserpine,
that they should not, in undue haste,
deprive her patient's aged limbs of life.
When certain she compelled the God's regard,
assured her incantations and long prayers
were both approved and heard, she bade her people
bring out the body of her father-in-law—
old Aeson's worn out body—and when she
had buried him in a deep slumber by
her spells, as if he were a dead man, she
then stretched him out upon a bed of herbs.
She ordered Jason and his servants thence,
and warned them not to spy upon her rites,
with eyes profane. As soon as they retired,
Medea, with disheveled hair and wild
abandon, as a Bacchanalian, paced
times three around the blazing altars, while
she dipped her torches, splintered at the top,
into the trenches, dark: with blood, and lit
the dipt ends in the sacred altar flames.
Times three she purified the ancient man
with flames, and thrice with water, and three times
with sulphur,—as the boiling mixture seethed
and bubbled in the brazen cauldron near.
And into this, acerbic juices, roots,
and flowers and seeds—from vales Hemonian—
and mixed elixirs, into which she cast
stones of strange virtue from the Orient,
and sifted sands of ebbing ocean's tide;
white hoar-frost, gathered when the moon was full,
the nauseating flesh and luckless wings
of the uncanny screech-owl, and the entrails
from a mysterious animal that changed
from wolf to man, from man to wolf again;
the scaly sloughing of a water-snake,
the medic liver of a long-lived stag,
and the hard beak and head of an old crow
which was alive nine centuries before;
these, and a thousand nameless things
the foreign sorceress prepared and mixed,
and blended all together with a branch
of peaceful olive, old and dry with years. —
And while she stirred the withered olive branch
in the hot mixture, it began to change
from brown to green; and presently put forth
new leaves, and soon was heavy with a wealth
of luscious olives.—As the ever-rising fire
threw bubbling froth beyond the cauldron's rim,
the ground was covered with fresh verdure — flowers
and all luxuriant grasses, and green plants.
Medea, when she saw this wonder took
her unsheathed knife and cut the old man's throat;
then, letting all his old blood out of him
she filled his ancient veins with rich elixir.
As he received it through his lips or wound,
his beard and hair no longer white with age,
turned quickly to their natural vigor, dark
and lustrous; and his wasted form renewed,
appeared in all the vigor of bright youth,
no longer lean and sallow, for new blood
coursed in his well-filled veins.—Astonished, when
released from his deep sleep, and strong in youth,
his memory assured him, such he was
years four times ten before that day!—
Bacchus, from his celestial vantage saw
this marvel, and convinced his nurses might
then all regain their former vigor, he
pled with Medea to restore their youth.
The Colchian woman granted his request.

but so her malice might be satisfied
Medea feigned she had a quarrel with
her husband, and for safety she had fled
to Pelias. There, since the king himself
was heavy with old age, his daughters gave
her generous reception. And these girls
the shrewd Medea in a short time won,
by her false show of friendliness; and while
among the most remarkable of her
achievements she was telling how she had
rejuvenated Aeson, and she dwelt
particularly, on that strange event,
these daughters were induced to hope that by
some skill like this their father might regain
his lost youth also. And they begged of her
this boon, persuading her to name the price;
no matter if it was large. She did not
reply at once and seemed to hesitate,
and so she held their fond minds in a deep
suspense by her feigned meditation. When
she had at length declared she would restore
his youth, she said to them: “That you may have
strong confidence in this my promised boon,
the oldest leader of your flock of sheep shall be
changed to a lamb again by my prized drugs.”
Straightway a wooly ram, worn out with length
of untold years was brought, his great horns curved
around his hollow temples. After she
had cut his scrawny throat with her sharp knife
Thessalian, barely staining it with his
thin blood, Medea plunged his carcass in
a bronze-made kettle, throwing in it at
the same time juices of great potency.
These made his body shrink and burnt away
his two horns, and with horns his years. And now
thin bleating was heard from within the pot;
and even while they wondered at the sound,
a lamb jumped out and frisking, ran away
to find some udder with its needed milk.
Amazed the daughters looked on and, now that
these promises had been performed, they urged
more eagerly their first request. Three times
Phoebus unyoked his steeds after their plunge
in Ebro's stream, and on the fourth night stars
shown brilliant on the dark foil of the sky,
and then the treacherous daughter of Aeetes
set some clear water over a hot fire
and put in it herbs of no potency.
And now a death-like sleep held the king down,
his body all relaxed, and with the king
his guards, a sleep which incantations with
the potency of magic words had given.
The sad king's daughters, as they had been bid,
were in his room, and with Medea stood
around his bed. “Why do you hesitate,”
Medea said. “You laggards, come and draw
your swords; let out his old blood that
I may refill his empty veins again
with young blood. In your hands your father's life
and youth are resting. You, his daughters, must
have love for him, and if the hopes you have
are not all vain, come, do your duty by
your father; drive out old age at the point
of your good weapons; and let out his blood
enfeebled—cure him with the stroke of iron.”
Spurred on by these words, as each one of them
was filial she became the leader in
the most unfilial act, and that she might
not be most wicked did the wicked deed.
Not one could bear to see her own blows, so
they turned their eyes away; and every face
averted so, they blindly struck him with
their cruel hands. The old man streaming with
his blood, still raised himself on elbow, and
half mangled tried to get up from his bed;
with all those swords around him, he stretched out
his pale arms and he cried: “What will you do,
my daughters? What has armed you to the death
of your loved father?” Their wrong courage left
them, and their hands fell. When he would have said
still more, Medea cut his throat and plunged
his mangled body into boiling water.

Only because her winged dragons sailed
swiftly with her up to the lofty sky,
escaped Medea punishment for this
unheard of crime.
Her chariot sailed above
embowered Pelion — long the lofty home
of Chiron—over Othrys, and the vale
made famous where Cerambus met his fate.
Cerambus, by the aid of nymphs, from there
was wafted through the air on wings, when earth
was covered by the overwhelming sea—
and so escaped Deucalion's flood, uncrowned.
She passed by Pittane upon the left,
with its huge serpent-image of hard stone,
and also passed the grove called Ida's, where
the stolen bull was changed by Bacchus' power
into a hunted stag—in that same vale
Paris lies buried in the sand; and over fields
where Mera warning harked, Medea flew;
over the city of Eurypylus
upon the Isle of Cos, whose women wore
the horns of cattle when from there had gone
the herd of Hercules; and over Rhodes
beloved of Phoebus, where Telchinian tribes
dwelt, whose bad eyes corrupting power shot forth;—
Jove, utterly despising, thrust them deep
beneath his brother's waves; over the walls
of old Carthaea, where Alcidamas
had seen with wonder a tame dove arise
from his own daughter's body.
And she saw
the lakes of Hyrie in Teumesia's Vale,
by swans frequented—There to satisfy
his love for Cycnus, Phyllius gave
two living vultures: shell for him subdued
a lion, and delivered it to him;
and mastered a great bull, at his command;
but when the wearied Phyllius refused
to render to his friend the valued bull.
Indignant, the youth said, “You shall regret
your hasty words;” which having said, he leaped
from a high precipice, as if to death;
but gliding through the air, on snow-white wings,
was changed into a swan—Dissolved in tears,
his mother Hyrie knew not he was saved;
and weeping, formed the lake that bears her name.
And over Pleuron, where on trembling wings
escaped the mother Combe from her sons,
Medea flew; and over the far isle
Calauria, sacred to Latona.—She
beheld the conscious fields whose lawful king,
together with his queen were changed to birds.
Upon her right Cyllene could be seen;
there Menephon, degraded as a beast,
outraged his mother. In the distance, she
beheld Cephisius, who lamented long
his hapless grandson, by Apollo changed
into a bloated sea-calf. And she saw
the house where king Eumelus mourned the death
of his aspiring son.—Borne on the wings
of her enchanted dragons, she arrived
at Corinth, whose inhabitants, 'tis said,
from many mushrooms, watered by the rain
sprang into being.
There she spent some years.
But after the new wife had been burnt by
the Colchian witchcraft and two seas
had seen the king's own palace all aflame,
then, savagely she drew her sword, and bathed
it in the blood of her own infant sons;
by which atrocious act she was revenged;
and she, a wife and mother, fled the sword
of her own husband, Jason.
On the wings
of her enchanted Titan Dragons borne,
she made escape, securely, nor delayed
until she entered the defended walls
of great Minerva's city, at the hour
when aged Periphas — transformed by Jove,
together with his queen, on eagle wings
flew over its encircling walls: with whom
the guilty Halcyone, skimming seas
safely escaped, upon her balanced wings.
And after these events, Medea went
to Aegeus, king of Athens, where she found
protection from her enemies for all
this evil done. With added wickedness
Aegeus, after that, united her
to him in marriage.—

All unknown to him
came Theseus to his kingly court.—Before
the time his valor had established peace
on all the isthmus, raved by dual seas.
Medea, seeking his destruction, brewed
the juice of aconite, infesting shores
of Scythia, where, 'tis fabled, the plant grew
on soil infected by Cerberian teeth.
There is a gloomy entrance to a cave,
that follows a declivitous descent:
there Hercules with chains of adamant
dragged from the dreary edge of Tartarus
that monster-watch-dog, Cerberus, which, vain
opposing, turned his eyes aslant from light—
from dazzling day. Delirious, enraged,
that monster shook the air with triple howls;
and, frothing, sprinkled as it raved, the fields,
once green—with spewing of white poison-foam.
And this, converted into plants, sucked up
a deadly venom with the nourishment
of former soils,—from which productive grew
upon the rock, thus formed, the noxious plant;
by rustics, from that cause, named aconite.
Medea worked on Aegeus to present
his own son, Theseus, with a deadly cup
of aconite; prevailing by her art
so that he deemed his son an enemy.
Theseus unwittingly received the cup,
but just before he touched it to his lips,
his father recognized the sword he wore,
for, graven on its ivory hilt was wrought
a known device—the token of his race.
Astonished, Aegeus struck the poison-cup
from his devoted son's confiding lips.
Medea suddenly escaped from death,
in a dark whirlwind her witch-singing raised.
Recoiling from such utter wickedness,
rejoicing that his son escaped from death,
the grateful father kindled altar-fires,
and gave rich treasure to the living Gods. —
He slaughtered scores of oxen, decked with flowers
and gilded horns. The sun has never shone
upon a day more famous in that land,
for all the elders and the common folk
united in festivities,—with wine
inspiring wit and song;—“O you,” they sang,
“Immortal Theseus, victory was yours!
Did you not slaughter the huge bull of Crete?
“Yes, you did slay the boar of Cromyon —
where now the peasant unmolested plows;
“And Periphetes, wielder of the club,
was worsted when he struggled with your strength;
“And fierce Procrustes, matched with you
beside the rapid river, met his death;
“And even Cercyon, in Eleusis lost
his wicked life—inferior to your might;
“And Sinis, a monstrosity of strength,
who bent the trunks of trees, and used his might
“Against the world for everything that's wrong.
For evil, he would force down to the earth,
“Pine tops to shoot men's bodies through the air.
Even the road to Megara is safe,
“For you did hurl the robber Scyron,—sheer—
over the cliff. Both land and sea denied
“His bones a resting place—as tossed about
they changed into the cliffs that bear his name.
“How can we tell the number of your deeds,—
deeds glorious, that now exceed your years!
“For you, brave hero, we give public thanks
and prayers; to you we drain our cups of wine!”
And all the palace rings with happy songs,
and with the grateful prayers of all the people.
And sorrow in that city is not known.—

But pleasure always is alloyed with grief,
and sorrow mingles in the joyous hour.
While the king Aegeus and his son rejoiced,
Minos prepared for war. He was invincible
in men and ships—and stronger in his rage
to wreak due vengeance on the king who slew
his son Androgeus. But first he sought
some friends to aid his warfare; and he scoured
the sea with a swift fleet—which was his strength.
Anaphe and Astypalaea, both
agreed to join his cause—the first one moved
by promises, the second by his threats.
Level Myconus and the chalky fields
of Cimolus agreed to aid, and Syros
covered with wild thyme, level Seriphos,
Paros of marble cliffs, and that place which
Arne the impious Siphnian had betrayed,
who having got the gold which in her greed
she had demanded, was changed to a bird
which ever since that day imagines gold
its chief delight—a black-foot black-winged daw.
But Oliarus, Didymae, and Tenos,
Gyaros, Andros, and Peparethos
rich in its glossy olives, gave no aid
to the strong Cretan fleet. Sailing from them
Minos went to Oenopia, known realm
of the Aeacidae.—Men of old time
had called the place Oenopia; but Aeacus
styled it Aegina from his mother's name.
At his approach an eager rabble rushed
resolved to see and know so great a man.
Telamon met him, and his brother,
younger than Telamon, and Phocus who
was third in age. Even Aeacus appeared,
slow with the weight of years, and asked him what
could be a reason for his coming there.
The ruler of a hundred cities, sighed,
as he beheld the sons of Aeacus,
for they reminded him of his lost son;—
and heavy with his sorrow, he replied:
“I come imploring you to take up arms,
and aid me in the war against my foes;
for I must give that comfort to the shade
of my misfortuned son—whose blood they shed.”
But Aeacus replied to Minos, “Nay,
it is a vain request you make, for we
are bound in strict alliance to the land
and people of Cecropia.”
Full of rage,
because he was denied, the king of Crete,
Minos, as he departed from their shores
replied, “Let such a treaty be your bane.”
And he departed with his crafty threat,
believing it expedient not to waste
his power in wars until the proper time.
Before the ships of Crete had disappeared,
before the mist and blue of waves concealed
their fading outlines from the anxious throng
which gathered on Oenopian shores, a ship
of Athens covered with wide sails appeared,
and anchored safely by their friendly shore;
and, presently, the mighty Cephalus,
well known through all that nation for his deeds,
addressed them as he landed, and declared
the good will of his people. Him the sons
of Aeacus remembered well, although
they had not seen him for some untold years.
They led him to their father's welcome home;
and with him, also, his two comrades went,
Clytus and Butes.
Center of all eyes,
the hero still retained his charm,
the customary greetings were exchanged,
the graceful hero, bearing in his hands
a branch of olive from his native soil,
delivered the Athenian message, which
requested aid and offered for their thought
the treaty and the ancestral league between
their nations. And he added, Minos sought
not only conquest of the Athenian state
but sovereignty of all the states of Greece.
And when this eloquence had shown his cause;
with left hand on his gleaming sceptre's hilt,
King Aeacus exclaimed: “Ask not our aid,
but take it, Athens; and count boldly yours
all of the force this island holds, and all
things which the state of my affairs supplies.
My strength for this war is not light, and I
have many soldiers for myself and for
my enemy. Thanks to the Gods! the times
are happy, giving no excuse for my
refusal.” “May it prove so,” Cephalus
replied, “and may your city multiply
in men: just now as I was landing, I
rejoiced to meet youths, fair and matched in age.
And yet I miss among them many whom
I saw before when last I visited
your city.” Aeacus then groaned and with
sad voice replied: “With weeping we began,
but better fortune followed. Would that I
could tell the last of it, and not the first!
Giving my heart command that simple words
and briefly spoken may not long detain.
Those happy youths who waited at your need,
who smiled upon you and for whom you ask,
because their absence grieves your noble mind,
they've perished! and their bleaching bones
or scattered ashes, only may remain,
sad remnants, impotent, of vanished power,
so recently my hope and my resource.
“Because this island bears a rival's name,
a deadly pestilence was visited
on my confiding people, through the rage
of jealous Juno flaming for revenge.
This great calamity at first appeared
a natural disease—but soon its power
baffled our utmost efforts. Medicines
availing not, a reign of terror swept
from shore to shore and fearful havoc raged.
“Thick darkness, gathered from descending skies,
enveloped our devoted land with heat
and languid sickness, for the space of full
four moons.—Four times the Moon increased her size.
Hot south winds blew with pestilential breath
upon us. At the same time the diseased
infection reached our needed springs and pools,
thousands of serpents crawling over our
deserted fields, defiled our rivers with
their poison. The swift power of the disease
at first was limited to death of dogs
and birds and cattle, or among wild beasts.
The luckless plowman marvels when he sees
his strong bulls fall while at their task
and sink down in the furrow. Woolly flocks
bleat feebly while their wool falls off without
a cause, and while their bodies pine away.
The prized horse of high courage, and of great
renown when on the race-course, has now lost
victorious spirit, and forgetting his
remembered glory groans in his shut stall,
doomed for inglorious death. The boar forgets
to rage, the stag to trust his speed; and even
the famished bear to fight the stronger herd.
“Death seizes on the vitals of all life;
and in the woods, and in the fields and roads
the loathsome bodies of the dead corrupt
the heavy-hanging air. Even the dogs,
the vultures and the wolves refuse to touch
the putrid flesh, there in the sultry sun
rotting upon the earth; emitting steams,
and exhalations, with a baneful sweep
increasing the dread contagion's wide extent.

So spreading, with renewed destruction gained
from its own poison, the fierce pestilence
appeared to leap from moulding carcases
of all the brute creation, till it struck
the wretched tillers of the soil, and then
extended its dominion over all
this mighty city.
“Always it began
as if the patient's bowels were scorched with flames;
red blotches on the body next appeared,
and sharp pains in the lungs prevented breath.
The swollen tongue would presently loll out,
rough and discolored from the gaping mouth,
wide-gasping to inhale the noxious air—
and show red throbbing veins. The softest bed.
And richest covering gave to none relief;
but rather, the diseased would bare himself
to cool his burning breast upon the ground,
only to heat the earth—and no relief
returned. And no physician could be found;
for those who ministered among the sick
were first to suffer from the dread disease—
the cruel malady broke out upon
the very ones who offered remedies.
The hallowed art of medicine became
a deadly snare to those who knew it best.
“The only safety was in flight; and those
who were the nearest to the stricken ones,
and who most faithfully observed their wants,
were always first to suffer as their wards.
“And many, certain of approaching death,
indulged their wicked passions—recklessly
abandoned and without the sense of shame,
promiscuously huddled by the wells,
and rivers and cool fountains; but their thirst
no water could assuage, and death alone
was able to extinguish their desire.
Too weak to rise, they die in water they
pollute, while others drink its death.
“A madness seizing on them made their beds
become most irksome to their tortured nerves.
Demented they could not endure the pain,
and leaped insanely forth. Or if too weak,
the wretches rolled their bodies on the ground,
insistent to escape from hated homes—
imagined sources of calamity;
for, since the cause was hidden and unknown,
the horrible locality was blamed.
Suspicion seizes on each frail presence
as proof of what can never be resolved.
“And many half-dead wretches staggered out
on sultry roads as long as they could stand;
and others weeping, stretched out on the ground,
died in convulsions, as their rolling eyes
gazed upwards at the overhanging clouds;
under the sad stars they breathed out their souls.
“And oh, the deep despair that seized on me,
the sovereign of that wretched people! I
was tortured with a passionate desire
to die the same death—And I hated life.
“No matter where my shrinking eyes were turned,
I saw a multitude of gruesome forms
in ghastly attitudes bestrew the ground,
scattered as rotten apples that have dropped
from moving branches, or as acorns thick
around a gnarled oak.
“Lift up your eyes!
Behold that holy temple! unto Jove
long dedicated!—What availed the prayers
of frightened multitudes, or incense burned
on those devoted altars?—In the midst
of his most fervent supplications,
the husband as he pled for his dear wife,
or the fond father for his stricken son,
would suddenly, before a word prevailed,
die clutching at the altars of his Gods,
while holding in his stiffened hand, a spray
of frankincense still waiting for the fire.
How often sacrificial bulls have been
brought to those temples, and while white-robed priest
was pouring offered wine between their horns,
have fallen without waiting for the stroke.
“While I prepared a sacrifice to Jove,
for my behalf, my country and three sons,
the victim, ever moaning dismal sounds,
before a blow was struck, fell suddenly
beside the altar; and his scanty blood
ran thinly from the knives that slaughtered him.
His entrails, wanting all the marks of truth
were so diseased, the warnings of the Gods
could not be read—the baneful malady
had penetrated to the heart of life.
“And I have seen the carcases of men
lie rotting at the sacred temple gates,
or by the very altars, where they fell,
making death odious to the living Gods.
And often I have seen some desperate man
end life by his own halter, and so cheat
by voluntary death his fear of death,
in mad haste to outrun approaching fate.
“The bodies of the dead, indecently
were cast forth, lacking sacred funeral rites
as hitherto the custom. All the gates
were crowded with processions of the dead.
Unburied, they might lie upon the ground,
or else, deserted, on their lofty pyres
with no one to lament their dismal end,
dissolve in their dishonored ashes. All
restraint forgotten, a mad rabble fought
and took possession of the burning pyres,
and even the dead were ravished of their rest.—
And who should mourn them wanting, all the souls
of sons and husbands, and of old and young,
must wander unlamented: and the land
sufficed not for the crowded sepulchers:
and the dense forest was denuded of all trees.
“Heart-broken at the sight of this great woe,
I wailed, ‘O Jupiter! if truth were told
of your sweet comfort in Aegina's arms,
if you were not ashamed of me, your son,
restore my people, or entomb my corpse,
that I may suffer as the ones I love.’—
Great lightning flashed around me, and the sound
of thunder proved that my complaint was heard.
Accepting it, I cried, ‘Let these, Great Jove,
the happy signs of your assent, be shown
good omens given as a sacred pledge.’
“Near by, a sacred oak tree grown from seed
brought thither from Dodona, spread abroad
its branches thinly covered with green leaves;
and creeping as an army, on the tree
we saw a train of ants that carried grain,
half-hidden in the deep and wrinkled bark.
And while I wondered at the endless line
I said, ‘Good father, give me citizens
of equal number for my empty walls.’
Soon as I said those words, though not a wind
was moving nor a breeze,—the lofty tree
began to tremble, and I heard a sound
of motion in its branches. Wonder not
that sudden fear possessed me; and my hair
began to rise; and I could hardly stand
for so my weak knees tottered!—As I made
obeisance to the soil and sacred tree,
perhaps I cherished in my heart a thought,
that, not acknowledged, cheered me with some hope.