Metamorphoses

Ovid

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

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.—