Metamorphoses

Ovid

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

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.

“At night I lay exhausted by such thoughts,
a deep sleep seized my body, but the tree
seemed always present—to my gaze distinct
with all its branches—I could even see
the birds among its leaves; and from its boughs,
that trembled in the still air, moving ants
were scattered to the ground in troops below;
and ever, as they touched the soil, they grew
larger and larger.—As they raised themselves,
they stood with upright bodies, and put off
their lean shapes; and absorbed their many feet:
and even as their dark brown color changed,
their rounded forms took on a human shape.
“When my strange dream departed, I awoke,
the vision vanished, I complained to Heaven
against the idle comfort of such dreams;
but as I voiced my own lament, I heard
a mighty murmur echoing through the halls
of my deserted palace, and a multitude
of voices in confusion; where the sound
of scarce an echo had disturbed the still
deserted chambers for so many days.
“All this I thought the fancy of my dream,
until my brave son Telamon, in haste
threw open the closed doorway, as he called,
‘Come quickly father, and behold a sight
beyond the utmost of your fondest dreams!’
I did go out, and there I saw such men
each in his turn, as I had seen transformed
in that weird vision of the moving ants.
“They all advanced, and hailed me as their king.
So soon as I had offered vows to Jove,
I subdivided the deserted farms,
and dwellings in the cities to these men
miraculously raised —which now are called
my Myrmidons, —the living evidence
of my strange vision. You have seen these men;
and since that day, their name has been declared,
‘Decisive evidence.’ They have retained
the well-known customs of the days before
their transformation. Patiently they toil;
they store the profits of their labor; which
they guard with valiant skill. They'll follow you
to any war, well matched in years and courage,
and I do promise, when this east wind turns,
this wind that favored you and brought you here,
and when a south wind favors our design,
then my brave Myrmidons will go with you.”

This narrative and many other tales
had occupied the day. As twilight fell,
festivities were blended in the night—
the night, in turn, afforded sweet repose.
Soon as the golden Sun had shown his light,
the east wind blowing still, the ships were stayed
from sailing home. The sons of Pallas came
to Cephalus, who was the elder called;
and Cephalus together with the sons
of Pallas, went to see the king. Deep sleep
still held the king; and Phocus who was son
of Aeacus, received them at the gate,
instead of Telamon and Peleus who
were marshalling the men for war. Into
the inner court and beautiful apartments
Phocus conducted the Athenians,
and they sat down together. Phocus then
observed that Cephalus held in his hand
a curious javelin with golden head,
and shaft of some rare wood. And as they talked,
he said; “It is my pleasure to explore
the forest in the chase of startled game,
and so I've learned the nature of rare woods,
but never have I seen the match of this
from which was fashioned this good javelin;
it lacks the yellow tint of forest ash,
it is not knotted like all corner-wood;
although I cannot name the kind of wood,
my eyes have never seen a javelin-shaft
so beautiful as this.”
To him replied
a friend of Cephalus; “But you will find
its beauty is not equal to its worth,
for whatsoever it is aimed against,
its flight is always certain to the mark,
nor is it subject to the shift of chance;
and after it has struck, although no hand
may cast it back, it certainly returns,
bloodstained with every victim.”
Then indeed,
was Phocus anxious to be told, whence came
and who had given such a precious gift.
And Cephalus appeared to tell him all;
but craftily was silent on one strange
condition of the fatal gift. As he
recalled the mournful fate of his dear wife,
his eyes filled up with tears. “Ah, pity me,”
he said, “If Fate should grant me many years,
I must weep every time that I regard
this weapon which has been my cause of tears;
the unforgiven death of my dear wife—
ah, would that I had never handled it!
“My sweet wife, Procris!—if you could compare
her beauty with her sister's—Orithyia's,
(ravished by the blustering Boreas)
you would declare my wife more beautiful.
“'Tis she her sire Erectheus joined to me,
'Tis she the god Love also joined to me.
They called me happy, and in truth I was,
and all pronounced us so until the Gods
decreed it otherwise. Two joyful months
of our united love were almost passed,
when, as the grey light of the dawn dispelled,
upon the summit of Hymettus green,
Aurora, glorious in her golden robes,
observed me busy with encircling nets,
trapping the antlered deer.
“Against my will
incited by desire, she carried me
away with her. Oh, let me not increase
her anger, for I tell you what is true,
I found no comfort in her lovely face!
And, though she is the very queen of light,
and reigns upon the edge of shadowy space
where she is nourished on rich nectar-wine,
adding delight to beauty, I could give
no heed to her entreaties, for the thought
of my beloved Procris intervened;
and only her sweet name was on my lips.
“I told Aurora of our wedding joys
and all refreshing joys of love — and my
first union of my couch deserted now:
“Enraged against me, then the goddess said:
‘Keep to your Procris, I but trouble you,
ungrateful clown! but, if you can be warned,
you will no longer wish for her!’ And so,
in anger, she returned me to my wife.
“Alas, as I retraced the weary way,
long-brooding over all Aurora said,
suspicion made me doubtful of my wife,
so faithful and so fair.—But many things
reminding me of steadfast virtue, I
suppressed all doubts; until the dreadful thought
of my long absence filled my jealous mind:
from which I argued to the criminal
advances of Aurora; for if she,
so lovely in appearance, did conceal
such passion in the garb of innocence
until the moment of temptation, how
could I be certain of the purity
of even the strongest when the best are frail?
“So brooding—every effort I devised
to cause my own undoing. By the means
of bribing presents, favored by disguise,
I sought to win her guarded chastity.
Aurora had disguised me, and her guile
determined me to work in subtle snares.
“Unknown to all my friends, I paced the streets
of sacred Athens till I reached my home.
I hoped to search out evidence of guilt:
but everything seemed waiting my return;
and all the household breathed an air of grief.
“With difficulty I, disguised, obtained
an entrance to her presence by the use
of artifices many: and when I
there saw her, silent in her grief,—amazed,
my heart no longer prompted me to test
such constant love. An infinite desire
took hold upon me. I could scarce restrain
an impulse to caress and kiss her. Pale
with grief that I was gone, her lovely face
in sorrow was more beautiful—the world
has not another so divinely fair.
“Ah, Phocus, it is wonderful to think
of beauty so surpassing fair it seems
more lovable in sorrow! Why relate
to you how often she repulsed my feigned
attempts upon her virtue? To each plea
she said: ‘I serve one man: no matter where
he may be I will keep my love for one.’
“Who but a man insane with jealousy,
would doubt the virtue of a loving wife,
when tempted by the most insidious wiles,
whose hallowed honor was her husband's love?
But I, not satisfied with proof complete,
would not abandon my depraved desire
to poison the pure fountain I should guard;—
increasing my temptations, I caused her
to hesitate, and covet a rich gift.
“Then, angered at my own success I said,
discarding all disguise, ‘Behold the man
whose lavish promise has established proof,
the witness of your shameful treachery;
your absent husband has returned to this!’
“Unable to endure a ruined home,
where desecration held her sin to view,
despairing and in silent shame she fled;
and I, the author of that wickedness
ran after: but enraged at my deceit
and hating all mankind, she wandered far
in wildest mountains; hunting the wild game.
“I grieved at her desertion; and the fires
of my neglected love consumed my health;
with greater violence my love increased,
until unable to endure such pain,
I begged forgiveness and acknowledged fault:
nor hesitated to declare that I
might yield, the same way tempted, if such great
gifts had been offered to me. When I had made
abject confession and she had avenged
her outraged feelings, she came back to me
and we spent golden years in harmony.
“She gave to me the hound she fondly loved,
the very one Diana gave to her
when lovingly the goddess had declared,
‘This hound all others shall excel in speed.’
Nor was that gift the only one was given
by kind Diana when my wife was hers,
as you may guess—this javelin I hold forth,
no other but a goddess could bestow.
“Would you be told the story of both gifts
attend my words and you shall be amazed,
for never such another sad event
has added sorrow to the grieving world.