Metamorphoses

Ovid

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

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.