Metamorphoses

Ovid

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

And after all this wavering, her mind
at last was satisfied; and as she leaned
on her left elbow, partly raised from her
half-dream position, she said, “Let him see:
let me at once confess my frantic passion
without repression! O my wretched heart!
What hot flame burns me!” But while speaking so,
she took an iron pen in her right hand,
and trembling wrote the heart-words as she could,
all on a clean wax tablet which she held
in her limp left hand. She begins and stops,
and hesitates—she loves and hates her hot
confession—writes, erases, changes here
and there, condemns, approves, disheartened throws
her tablets down and takes them up again:
her mind refuses everything she does,
and moves against each action as begun:
shame, fear and bold assurance mingled showed
upon her face, as she began to write,
“Your sister” but at once decided she
could not say sister, and commenced instead,
with other words on her amended wax.
“A health to you, which she who loves you fails
to have, unless you grant the same to her.
It shames me, oh I am ashamed to tell
my name to you, and so without my name,
I would I might plead well until the hopes
of my desires were realized, and then
you might know safely, Byblis is my name.
“You might have knowledge of my wounded heart,
because my pale, drawn face and down-cast eyes
so often tearful, and my sighs without
apparent cause have shown it — and my warm
embraces, and my frequent kisses, much
too tender for a sister. All of this
has happened, while with agitated heart
and in hot passion, I have tried all ways,
(I call upon the Gods to witness it!)
that I might force myself to sanity.
And I have struggled, wretched nights and days,
to overcome the cruelties of love,
too dreadful for a frail girl to endure,
for they most surely are all Cupid's art.
“I have been overborne and must confess
my passion, while with timid prayers I plead;
for only you can save me. You alone
may now destroy the one who loves you best:
so you must choose what will be the result.
The one who prays is not your enemy;
but one most closely joined to you, yet asks
to knit the tie more firmly. Let old men
be governed by propriety, and talk
of what is right and wrong, and hold to all
the nice distinctions of strict laws. But Love,
has no fixed law for those whose age is ours,
is heedless and compliant. And we have
not yet discovered what is right or wrong,
and all we should do is to imitate
the known example of the Gods. We have
no father's harsh rule, and we have no care
for reputation, and no fear that keeps
us from each other. But there may be cause
for fear, and we may hide our stolen love,
because a sister is at liberty
to talk with her dear brother—quite apart:
we may embrace and kiss each other, though
in public. What is wanting? Pity her
whose utmost love compels her to confess;
and let it not be written on her tomb,
her death was for your sake and love denied.”
Here when she dropped the tablet from her hand,
it was so full of fond words, which were doomed
to disappointment, that the last line traced
the edge: and without thinking of delay,
she stamped the shameful letter with her seal,
and moistened it with tears (her tongue failed her
for moisture). Then, hot-blushing, she called one
of her attendants, and with timid voice
said, coaxing, “My most trusted servant, take
these tablets to my—” after long delay
she said, “my brother.” While she gave the tablets
they suddenly slipped from her hands and fell.
Although disturbed by this bad omen, she
still sent the letter, which the servant found
an opportunity to carry off.
He gave the secret love-confession. This
her brother, grandson of Maeander, read
but partly, and with sudden passion threw
the tablets from him. He could barely hold
himself from clutching on the throat of her
fear-trembling servant; as, enraged, he cried,
“Accursed pander to forbidden lust,
be gone!—before the knowledge of your death
is added to this unforeseen disgrace!”
The servant fled in terror, and told all
her brother's actions and his fierce reply
to Byblis: and when she had heard her love
had been repulsed, her startled face went pale,
and her whole body trembled in the grip
of ice-chills. Quickly as her mind regained
its usual strength, her maddening love returned,
came back with equal force, and while she choked
with her emotion, gasping she said this:
“I suffer only from my folly! why did I
so rashly tell him of my wounded heart?
And why did I so hastily commit
to tablets all I should have kept concealed?
I should have edged my way by feeling first,
obscurely hinting till I knew his mind
and disposition towards me. And so that
my first voyage might get favorable wind,
I should have tested with a close-reefed sail,
and, knowing what the wind was, safely fared.
But now with sails full spread I have been tossed
by unexpected winds. And so my ship
is on the rocks; and, overwhelmed with all
the power of Ocean, I have not the strength
to turn back and recover what is lost.
“Surely clear omens warned me not to tell
my love so soon, because the tablets fell
just when I would have put them in the hand
of my picked servant — certainly a sign
my hasty hopes were destined to fall down.
Is it not clear I should have changed the day;
and even my intention? Rather say
should not the day have been postponed at once?
The god himself gave me unerring signs,
if I had not been so deranged with love.
I should have spoken to him, face to face;
and with my own lips have confessed it all;
and then my passion had been seen by him,
and, as my face was bathed in tears, I could
have told him so much more than words engraved
on tablets; and, while I was telling him
I could have thrown my arms around his neck,
and if rejected could have seemed almost
at point of death; as I embraced his feet,
while prostrate, even might have begged for life.
I could have tried so many plans, and they
together would have won his stubborn heart.
“Perhaps my stupid servant, in mistake,
did not approach him at a proper time,
and even sought an hour his mind was full
of other things.
“All this has harmed my case;
there is no other reason; he was not
born of a tigress, and his heart is not
of flint or solid iron, or of adamant;
and no she-lion suckled him. He shall
be won to my affection; and I must
attempt again, again, nor ever cease
so long as I have breath. If it were not
too late already to undo what has
been done, 'twere wiser not begun at all.
But since I have begun, it now is best
to end it with success. How can he help
remembering what I dared, although I should
abandon my design! In such a case,
because I gave up, I must be to him
weak, fickle-minded; or perhaps he may
believe I tried to tempt him with a snare.
But come what may, he will not think of me
as overcome by some god who inflames
and rules the heart. He surely will believe
I was so actuated by my lust.
“If I do nothing more, my innocence
is gone forever. I have written him
and wooed him also, in a way so rash
and unmistakable, that if I should
do nothing more than this, I should be held
completely guilty in my brother's sight—
but I have hope, and nothing worse to fear.”

Then back and forth she argues; and so great
is her uncertainty, she blames herself
for what she did, and is determined just
as surely to succeed.
She tries all arts,
but is repeatedly repulsed by him,
until unable to control her ways,
her brother in despair, fled from the shame
of her designs: and in another land
he founded a new city.
Then, they say,
the wretched daughter of Miletus lost
control of reason. She wrenched from her breast
her garments, and quite frantic, beat her arms,
and publicly proclaims unhallowed love.
Grown desperate, she left her hated home,
her native land, and followed the loved steps
of her departed brother. Just as those
crazed by your thyrsus, son of Semele!
The Bacchanals of Ismarus, aroused,
howl at your orgies, so her shrieks were heard
by the shocked women of Bubassus, where
the frenzied Byblis howled across the fields,
and so through Caria and through Lycia,
over the mountain Cragus and beyond
the town, Lymira, and the flowing stream
called Xanthus, and the ridge where dwelt
Chimaera, serpent-tailed and monstrous beast,
fire breathing from its lion head and neck.
She hurried through the forest of that ridge—
and there at last worn out with your pursuit,
O Byblis, you fell prostrate, with your hair
spread over the hard ground, and your wan face
buried in fallen leaves. Although the young,
still tender-hearted nymphs of Leleges,
advised her fondly how to cure her love,
and offered comfort to her heedless heart,
and even lifted her in their soft arms;
without an answer Byblis fell from them,
and clutched the green herbs with her fingers, while
her tears continued to fall on the grass.
They say the weeping Naiads gave to her
a vein of tears which always flows there from
her sorrows—nothing better could be done.
Immediately, as drops of pitch drip forth
from the gashed pine, or sticky bitumen
distils out from the rich and heavy earth,
or as the frozen water at the approach
of a soft-breathing wind melts in the sun;
so Byblis, sad descendant of the Sun,
dissolving in her own tears, was there changed
into a fountain; which to this late day,
in all those valleys has no name but hers,
and issues underneath a dark oak-tree.

The tale of this unholy passion would
perhaps, have filled Crete's hundred cities then,
if Crete had not a wonder of its own
to talk of, in the change of Iphis. Once,
there lived at Phaestus, not far from the town
of Gnossus, a man Ligdus, not well known;
in fact obscure, of humble parentage,
whose income was no greater than his birth;
but he was held trustworthy and his life
had been quite blameless. When the time drew near
his wife should give birth to a child, he warned
her and instructed her, with words we quote:—
“There are two things which I would ask of Heaven:
that you may be delivered with small pain,
and that your child may surely be a boy.
Girls are such trouble, fair strength is denied
to them.—Therefore (may Heaven refuse the thought)
if chance should cause your child to be a girl,
(gods pardon me for having said the word!)
we must agree to have her put to death.”
And all the time he spoke such dreaded words,
their faces were completely bathed in tears;
not only hers but also his while he
forced on her that unnatural command.
Ah, Telethusa ceaselessly implored
her husband to give way to fortune's cast;
but Ligdus held his resolution fixed.
And now the expected time of birth was near,
when in the middle of the night she seemed
to see the goddess Isis, standing by
her bed, in company of serious spirit forms;
Isis had crescent horns upon her forehead,
and a bright garland made of golden grain
encircled her fair brow. It was a crown
of regal beauty: and beside her stood
the dog Anubis, and Bubastis, there
the sacred, dappled Apis, and the God
of silence with pressed finger on his lips;
the sacred rattles were there, and Osiris, known
the constant object of his worshippers' desire,
and there the Egyptian serpent whose quick sting
gives long-enduring sleep. She seemed to see
them all, and even to hear the goddess say
to her, “O Telethusa, one of my
remembered worshippers, forget your grief;
your husband's orders need not be obeyed;
and when Lucina has delivered you,
save and bring up your child, if either boy
or girl. I am the goddess who brings help
to all who call upon me; and you shall
never complain of me—that you adored
a thankless deity.” So she advised
by vision the sad mother, and left her.
The Cretan woman joyfully arose
from her sad bed, and supplicating, raised
ecstatic hands up towards the listening stars,
and prayed to them her vision might come true.
Soon, when her pains gave birth, the mother knew
her infant was a girl (the father had
no knowledge of it, as he was not there).
Intending to deceive, the mother said,
“Feed the dear boy.” All things had favored her
deceit—no one except the trusted nurse,
knew of it. And the father paid his vows,
and named the child after its grandfather, whose
name was honored Iphis. Hearing it so called,
the mother could not but rejoice, because
her child was given a name of common gender,
and she could use it with no more deceit.
She took good care to dress it as a boy,
and either as a boy or girl, its face
must always be accounted lovable.
And so she grew,—ten years and three had gone,
and then your father found a bride for you
O Iphis—promised you should take to wife
the golden-haired Ianthe, praised by all
the women of Phaestus for the dower
of her unequalled beauty, and well known,
the daughter of a Cretan named Telestes.
Of equal age and equal loveliness,
they had received from the same teachers, all
instruction in their childish rudiments.
So unsuspected love had filled their hearts
with equal longing—but how different!
Ianthe waits in confidence and hope
the ceremonial as agreed upon,
and is quite certain she will wed a man.
But Iphis is in love without one hope
of passion's ecstasy, the thought of which
only increased her flame; and she a girl
is burnt with passion for another girl!
She hardly can hold back her tears, and says:
“O what will be the awful dreaded end,
with such a monstrous love compelling me?
If the Gods should wish to save me, certainly
they should have saved me; but, if their desire
was for my ruin, still they should have given
some natural suffering of humanity.
The passion for a cow does not inflame a cow,
no mare has ever sought another mare.
The ram inflames the ewe, and every doe
follows a chosen stag; so also birds
are mated, and in all the animal world
no female ever feels love passion for
another female—why is it in me?
“Monstrosities are natural to Crete,
the daughter of the Sun there loved a bull—
it was a female's mad love for the male—
but my desire is far more mad than hers,
in strict regard of truth, for she had hope
of love's fulfillment. She secured the bull
by changing herself to a heifer's form;
and in that subtlety it was the male
deceived at last. Though all the subtleties
of all the world should be collected here;—
if Daedalus himself should fly back here
upon his waxen wings, what could he do?
What skillful art of his could change my sex,
a girl into a boy—or could he change
Ianthe? What a useless thought! Be bold
take courage Iphis, and be strong of soul.
This hopeless passion stultifies your heart;
so shake it off, and hold your memory
down to the clear fact of your birth: unless
your will provides deception for yourself:
do only what is lawful, and confine
strictly, your love within a woman's right.
“Hope of fulfillment can beget true love,
and hope keeps it alive. You are deprived
of this hope by the nature of your birth.
No guardian keeps you from her dear embrace,
no watchful jealous husband, and she has
no cruel father: she does not deny
herself to you. With all that liberty,
you can not have her for your happy wife,
though Gods and men should labor for your wish.
None of my prayers has ever been denied;
the willing Deities have granted me
whatever should be, and my father helps
me to accomplish everything I plan:
she and her father also, always help.
But Nature is more powerful than all,
and only Nature works for my distress.
“The wedding-day already is at hand;
the longed-for time is come; Ianthe soon
will be mine only—and yet, not my own:
with water all around me I shall thirst!
O why must Juno, goddess of sweet brides,
and why should Hymen also, favor us
when man with woman cannot join in wedlock,
but both are brides?” And so she closed her lips.

The other maiden flamed with equal love,
and often prayed for Hymen to appear.
But Telethusa, fearing that event,
the marriage which Ianthe keenly sought,
procrastinated, causing first delay
by some pretended illness; and then gave
pretence of omens and of visions seen,
sufficient for delay, until she had
exhausted every avenue of excuse,
and only one more day remained before
the fateful time, it was so near at hand.
Despairing then of finding other cause
which might prevent the fated wedding-day,
the mother took the circled fillets from
her own head, and her daughter's head, and prayed,
as she embraced the altar—her long hair
spread out upon the flowing breeze—and said:
“O Isis, goddess of Paraetonium,
the Mareotic fields, Pharos, and Nile
of seven horns divided—oh give help!
Goddess of nations! heal us of our fears!
I saw you, goddess, and your symbols once,
and I adored them all, the clashing sounds
of sistra and the torches of your train,
and I took careful note of your commands,
for which my daughter lives to see the sun,
and also I have so escaped from harm;—
all this is of your counsel and your gift;
oh, pity both of us—and give us aid!”
Tears emphasized her prayer; the goddess seemed
to move—in truth it was the altar moved;
the firm doors of the temple even shook—
and her horns, crescent, flashed with gleams of light,
and her loud sistrum rattled noisily.
Although not quite free of all fear, yet pleased
by that good omen, gladly the mother left
the temple with her daughter Iphis, who
beside her walked, but with a lengthened stride.
Her face seemed of a darker hue, her strength
seemed greater, and her features were more stern.
Her hair once long, was unadorned and short.
There is more vigor in her than she showed
in her girl ways. For in the name of truth,
Iphis, who was a girl, is now a man!
Make offerings at the temple and rejoice
without a fear!—They offer at the shrines,
and add a votive tablet, on which this
inscription is engraved:
these gifts are paid
by Iphis as a man which as a maid
he vowed to give.
The morrow's dawn
revealed the wide world; on the day agreed,
Venus, Juno and Hymen, all have met
our happy lovers at the marriage fires;
and Iphis, a new man, gained his Ianthe.

Veiled in a saffron mantle, through the air
unmeasured, after the strange wedding, Hymen
departed swiftly for Ciconian land;
regardless and not listening to the voice
of tuneful Orpheus. Truly Hymen there
was present during the festivities
of Orpheus and Eurydice, but gave
no happy omen, neither hallowed words
nor joyful glances; and the torch he held
would only sputter, fill the eyes with smoke,
and cause no blaze while waving. The result
of that sad wedding, proved more terrible
than such foreboding fates.
While through the grass
delighted Naiads wandered with the bride,
a serpent struck its venomed tooth in her
soft ankle— and she died.—After the bard
of Rhodope had mourned, and filled the highs
of heaven with the moans of his lament,
determined also the dark underworld
should recognize the misery of death,
he dared descend by the Taenarian gate
down to the gloomy Styx. And there passed through
pale-glimmering phantoms, and the ghosts
escaped from sepulchres, until he found
Persephone and Pluto, master-king
of shadow realms below: and then began
to strike his tuneful lyre, to which he sang:—
“O deities of this dark world beneath
the earth! this shadowy underworld, to which
all mortals must descend! If it can be
called lawful, and if you will suffer speech
of strict truth (all the winding ways
of Falsity forbidden) I come not
down here because of curiosity
to see the glooms of Tartarus and have
no thought to bind or strangle the three necks
of the Medusan Monster, vile with snakes.
But I have come, because my darling wife
stepped on a viper that sent through her veins
death-poison, cutting off her coming years.
“If able, I would bear it, I do not
deny my effort—but the god of Love
has conquered me—a god so kindly known
in all the upper world. We are not sure
he can be known so well in this deep world,
but have good reason to conjecture he
is not unknown here, and if old report
almost forgotten, that you stole your wife
is not a fiction, Love united you
the same as others. By this Place of Fear
this huge void and these vast and silent realms,
renew the life-thread of Eurydice.
“All things are due to you, and though on earth
it happens we may tarry a short while,
slowly or swiftly we must go to one
abode; and it will be our final home.
Long and tenaciously you will possess
unquestioned mastery of the human race.
She also shall be yours to rule, when full
of age she shall have lived the days of her
allotted years. So I ask of you
possession of her few days as a boon.
But if the fates deny to me this prayer
for my true wife, my constant mind must hold
me always so that I can not return—
and you may triumph in the death of two!”
While he sang all his heart said to the sound
of his sweet lyre, the bloodless ghosts themselves
were weeping, and the anxious Tantalus
stopped clutching at return-flow of the wave,
Ixion's twisting wheel stood wonder-bound;
and Tityus' liver for a while escaped
the vultures, and the listening Belides
forgot their sieve-like bowls and even you,
O Sisyphus! sat idly on your rock!
Then Fame declared that conquered by the song
of Orpheus, for the first and only time
the hard cheeks of the fierce Eumenides
were wet with tears: nor could the royal queen,
nor he who rules the lower world deny
the prayer of Orpheus; so they called to them
Eurydice, who still was held among
the new-arriving shades, and she obeyed
the call by walking to them with slow steps,
yet halting from her wound. So Orpheus then
received his wife; and Pluto told him he
might now ascend from these Avernian vales
up to the light, with his Eurydice;
but, if he turned his eyes to look at her,
the gift of her delivery would be lost.
They picked their way in silence up a steep
and gloomy path of darkness. There remained
but little more to climb till they would touch
earth's surface, when in fear he might again
lose her, and anxious for another look
at her, he turned his eyes so he could gaze
upon her. Instantly she slipped away.
He stretched out to her his despairing arms,
eager to rescue her, or feel her form,
but could hold nothing save the yielding air.
Dying the second time, she could not say
a word of censure of her husband's fault;
what had she to complain of — his great love?
Her last word spoken was, “Farewell!” which he
could barely hear, and with no further sound
she fell from him again to Hades.—Struck
quite senseless by this double death of his
dear wife, he was as fixed from motion as
the frightened one who saw the triple necks
of Cerberus, that dog whose middle neck
was chained. The sight filled him with terror he
had no escape from, until petrified
to stone; or like Olenos, changed to stone,
because he fastened on himself the guilt
of his wife. O unfortunate Lethaea!
Too boastful of your beauty, you and he,
united once in love, are now two stones
upon the mountain Ida, moist with springs.
Orpheus implored in vain the ferryman
to help him cross the River Styx again,
but was denied the very hope of death.
Seven days he sat upon Death's river bank,
in squalid misery and without all food—
nourished by grief, anxiety, and tears—
complaining that the Gods of Erebus
were pitiless, at last he wandered back,
until he came to lofty Rhodope
and Haemus, beaten by the strong north wind.
Three times the Sun completed his full course
to watery Pisces, and in all that time,
shunning all women, Orpheus still believed
his love-pledge was forever. So he kept
away from women, though so many grieved,
because he took no notice of their love.
The only friendship he enjoyed was given
to the young men of Thrace.

There was a hill
which rose up to a level plateau, high
and beautiful with green grass; and there was
not any shade for comfort on the top
and there on that luxuriant grass the bard,
while heaven-inspired reclined, and struck
such harmonies on his sweet lyre that shade
most grateful to the hill was spread around.
Strong trees came up there—the Chaonian oak
the Heliads' poplar, and the lofty-branched
deep mast-tree, the soft linden and the beech,
the brittle hazel, and the virgin laurel-tree,
the ash for strong spears, the smooth silver-fir,
the flex bent with acorns and the plane,
the various tinted maple and with those,
the lotus and green willows from their streams,
evergreen box and slender tamarisks,
rich myrtles of two colors and the tine,
bending with green-blue berries: and you, too,
the pliant-footed ivy, came along
with tendril-branching grape-vines, and the elm
all covered with twist-vines, the mountain-ash,
pitch-trees and arbute-trees of blushing fruit,
the bending-palm prized after victories,
the bare-trunk pine of tufted foliage,
bristled upon the top, a pleasant sight
delightful to the Mother of the Gods;
since Attis dear to Cybele, exchanged
his human form which hardened in that tree.
In all the throng the cone-shaped cypress came;
a tree now, it was changed from a dear youth
loved by the god who strings the lyre and bow.
For there was at one time, a mighty stag
held sacred by those nymphs who haunt the fields
Carthaean. His great antlers spread so wide,
they gave an ample shade to his own head.
Those antlers shone with gold: from his smooth throat
a necklace, studded with a wealth of gems,
hung down to his strong shoulders—beautiful.
A silver boss, fastened with little thongs,
played on his forehead, worn there from his birth;
and pendants from both ears, of gleaming pearls,
adorned his hollow temples. Free of fear,
and now no longer shy, frequenting homes
of men he knew, he offered his soft neck
even to strangers for their petting hands.
But more than by all others, he was loved
by you, O Cyparissus, fairest youth
of all the lads of Cea. It was you
who led the pet stag to fresh pasturage,
and to the waters of the clearest spring.
Sometimes you wove bright garlands for his horns,
and sometimes, like a horseman on his back,
now here now there, you guided his soft mouth
with purple reins. It was upon a summer day,
at high noon when the Crab, of spreading claws,
loving the sea-shore, almost burnt beneath
the sun's hot burning rays; and the pet stag
was then reclining on the grassy earth
and, wearied of all action, found relief
under the cool shade of the forest trees;
that as he lay there Cyparissus pierced
him with a javelin: and although it was
quite accidental, when the shocked youth saw
his loved stag dying from the cruel wound
he could not bear it, and resolved on death.
What did not Phoebus say to comfort him?
He cautioned him to hold his grief in check,
consistent with the cause. But still the lad
lamented, and with groans implored the Gods
that he might mourn forever. His life force
exhausted by long weeping, now his limbs
began to take a green tint, and his hair,
which overhung his snow-white brow, turned up
into a bristling crest; and he became
a stiff tree with a slender top and pointed
up to the starry heavens. And the God,
groaning with sorrow, said; “You shall be mourned
sincerely by me, surely as you mourn
for others, and forever you shall stand
in grief, where others grieve.”

Such was the grove
by Orpheus drawn together; and he sat
surrounded by assembled animals,
and many strange Birds. When he tried the chords
by touching with his thumb, and was convinced
the notes were all in harmony, although
attuned to various melody, he raised
his voice and sang:
“Oh my loved mother, Muse,
from Jove inspire my song—for all things yield,
to the unequalled sway of Jove—oh, I
have sung so often Jupiter's great power
before this day, and in a wilder strain,
I've sung the giants and victorious bolts
hurled on Phlegraean plains. But now I need
the gentler touch; for I would sing of boys,
the favorites of Gods, and even of maids
who had to pay the penalty of wrong.”
The king of all the Gods once burned with love
for Ganymede of Phrygia. He found
a shape more pleasing even than his own.
Jove would not take the form of any bird,
except the eagle's, able to sustain
the weight of his own thunderbolts. Without
delay, Jove on fictitious eagle wings,
stole and flew off with that loved Trojan boy:
who even to this day, against the will
of Juno, mingles nectar in the cups
of his protector, mighty Jupiter.
You also, Hyacinthus, would have been
set in the sky! if Phoebus had been given
time which the cruel fates denied for you.
But in a way you are immortal too.
Though you have died. Always when warm spring
drives winter out, and Aries (the Ram)
succeeds to Pisces (watery Fish), you rise
and blossom on the green turf. And the love
my father had for you was deeper than he felt
for others. Delphi center of the world,
had no presiding guardian, while the God
frequented the Eurotas and the land
of Sparta, never fortified with walls.
His zither and his bow no longer fill
his eager mind and now without a thought
of dignity, he carried nets and held
the dogs in leash, and did not hesitate
to go with Hyacinthus on the rough,
steep mountain ridges; and by all of such
associations, his love was increased.
Now Titan was about midway, betwixt
the coming and the banished night, and stood
at equal distance from those two extremes.
Then, when the youth and Phoebus were well stripped,
and gleaming with rich olive oil, they tried
a friendly contest with the discus. First
Phoebus, well-poised, sent it awhirl through air,
and cleft the clouds beyond with its broad weight;
from which at length it fell down to the earth,
a certain evidence of strength and skill.
Heedless of danger Hyacinthus rushed
for eager glory of the game, resolved
to get the discus. But it bounded back
from off the hard earth, and struck full against
your face, O Hyacinthus! Deadly pale
the God's face went — as pallid as the boy's.
With care he lifted the sad huddled form.
The kind god tries to warm you back to life,
and next endeavors to attend your wound,
and stay your parting soul with healing herbs.
His skill is no advantage, for the wound
is past all art of cure. As if someone,
when in a garden, breaks off violets,
poppies, or lilies hung from golden stems,
then drooping they must hang their withered heads,
and gaze down towards the earth beneath them; so,
the dying boy's face droops, and his bent neck,
a burden to itself, falls back upon
his shoulder: “You are fallen in your prime
defrauded of your youth, O Hyacinthus!”
Moaned Apollo. “I can see in your sad wound
my own guilt, and you are my cause of grief
and self-reproach. My own hand gave you death
unmerited — I only can be charged
with your destruction.—What have I done wrong?
Can it be called a fault to play with you?
Should loving you be called a fault? And oh,
that I might now give up my life for you!
Or die with you! But since our destinies
prevent us you shall always be with me,
and you shall dwell upon my care-filled lips.
The lyre struck by my hand, and my true songs
will always celebrate you. A new flower
you shall arise, with markings on your petals,
close imitation of my constant moans:
and there shall come another to be linked
with this new flower, a valiant hero shall
be known by the same marks upon its petals.”
And while Phoebus, Apollo, sang these words
with his truth-telling lips, behold the blood
of Hyacinthus, which had poured out on
the ground beside him and there stained the grass,
was changed from blood; and in its place a flower,
more beautiful than Tyrian dye, sprang up.
It almost seemed a lily, were it not
that one was purple and the other white.
But Phoebus was not satisfied with this.
For it was he who worked the miracle
of his sad words inscribed on flower leaves.
These letters AI, AI, are inscribed
on them. And Sparta certainly is proud
to honor Hyacinthus as her son;
and his loved fame endures; and every year
they celebrate his solemn festival.

If you should ask Amathus, which is rich
in metals, how can she rejoice and take
a pride in deeds of her Propoetides;
she would disclaim it and repudiate
them all, as well as those of transformed men,
whose foreheads were deformed by two rough horns,
from which their name Cerastae. By their gates
an altar unto Jove stood. If by chance
a stranger, not informed of their dark crimes,
had seen the horrid altar smeared with blood,
he would suppose that suckling calves and sheep
of Amathus, were sacrificed thereon—
it was in fact the blood of slaughtered guests!
Kind-hearted Venus, outraged by such deeds
of sacrifice, was ready to desert
her cities and her snake-infested plains;
“But how,” said she, “have their delightful lands
together with my well built cities sinned?
What crime have they done?—Those inhabitants
should pay the penalty of their own crimes
by exile or by death; or it may be
a middle course, between exile and death;
and what can that be, but the punishment
of a changed form?” And while she hesitates,
in various thoughts of what form they should take,
her eyes by chance, observed their horns,
and that decided her; such horns could well
be on them after any change occurred,
and she transformed their big and brutal bodies
to savage bulls.
But even after that,
the obscene Propoetides dared to deny
divinity of Venus, for which fault,
(and it is common fame) they were the first
to criminate their bodies, through the wrath
of Venus; and so blushing shame was lost,
white blood, in their bad faces grew so fast,
so hard, it was no wonder they were turned
with small change into hard and lifeless stones.