Ovid - Metamorphoses: Book The ThirteenthOvid - Metamorphoses: Book The Thirteenth
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With force superior, and a ruffian crew,
From these weak arms, the helpless virgins drew:
And sternly bad them use the grant divine,
To keep the fleet in corn, and oil, and wine.
Each, as they could, escap`d: two strove to gain
Euboea`s isle, and two their brother`s reign.
The soldier follows, and demands the dames;
If held by force, immediate war proclaims.
Fear conquer`d Nature in their brother`s mind,
And gave them up to punishment assign`d.
Forgive the deed; nor Hector`s arm was there,
Nor thine, Aeneas, to maintain the war;
Whose only force upheld your Ilium`s tow`rs,
For ten long years, against the Grecian pow`rs.
Prepar`d to bind their captive arms in bands,
To Heav`n they rear`d their yet unfetter`d hands,
Help, Bacchus, author of the gift, they pray`d;
The gift`s great author gave immediate aid;
If such destruction of their human frame
By ways so wond`rous, may deserve the name;
Nor could I hear, nor can I now relate
Exact, the manner of their alter`d state;
But this in gen`ral of my loss I knew,
Transform`d to doves, on milky plumes they flew,
Such as on Ida`s mount thy consort`s chariot drew.
With such discourse, they entertain`d the feast;
Then rose from table, and withdrew to rest.
The following morn, ere Sol was seen to shine,
Th` inquiring Trojans sought the sacred shrine;
The mystick Pow`r commands them to explore
Their ancient mother, and a kindred shore.
Attending to the sea, the gen`rous prince
Dismiss`d his guests with rich munificence,
In old Anchises` hand a sceptre plac`d,
A vest, and quiver young Ascanius grac`d,
His sire, a cup; which from th` Aonian coast,
Ismenian Therses sent his royal host.
Alcon of Myle made what Therses sent,
And carv`d thereon this ample argument.
A town with sev`n distinguish`d gates was shown,
Which spoke its name, and made the city known;
Before it, piles, and tombs, and rising flames,
The rites of death, and quires of mourning dames,
Who bar`d their breasts, and gave their hair to
flow,
The signs of grief, and marks of publick woe.
Their fountains dry`d, the weeping Naiads mourn`d,
The trees stood bare, with searing cankers burn`d,
No herbage cloath`d the ground, a ragged flock
Of goats half-famish`d, lick`d the naked rock,
Of manly courage, and with mind serene,
Orion`s daughters in the town were seen;
One heav`d her chest to meet the lifted knife,
One plung`d the poyniard thro` the seat of life,
Their country`s victims; mourns the rescu`d state,
The bodies burns, and celebrates their Fate.
To save the failure of th` illustrious line,
From the pale ashes rose, of form divine,
Two gen`rous youths; these, fame Coronae calls,
Who join the pomp, and mourn their mother`s falls.
These burnish`d figures form`d of antique mold,
Shone on the brass, with rising sculpture bold;
A wreath of gilt Acanthus round the brim was
roll`d.
Nor less expence the Trojan gifts express`d;
A fuming censer for the royal priest,
A chalice, and a crown of princely cost,
With ruddy gold, and sparkling gems emboss`d.
Now hoisting sail, to Crete the Trojans stood,
Themselves remembring sprung from Teucer`s blood;
But Heav`n forbids, and pestilential Jove
From noxious skies, the wand`ring navy drove.
Her hundred cities left, from Crete they bore,
And sought the destin`d land, Ausonia`s shore;
But toss`d by storms at either Strophas lay,
`Till scar`d by Harpies from the faithless bay.
Then passing onward with a prosp`rous wind,
Left sly Ulysses` spacious realms behind;
Ambracia`s state, in former ages known.
The strife of Gods, the judge transform`d to stone
They saw; for Actian Phoebus since renown`d,
Who Caesar`s arms with naval conquest crown`d;
Next pass`d Dodona, wont of old to boast
Her vocal forest; and Chaonia`s coast,
Where king Molossus` sons on wings aspir`d,
And saw secure the harmless fewel fir`d.
Now to Phaeacia`s happy isle they came,
For fertile orchards known to early fame;
Epirus past, they next beheld with joy
A second Ilium, and fictitious Troy;
Here Trojan Helenus the sceptre sway`d,
Who show`d their fate and mystick truths display`d.
By him confirm`d Sicilia`s isle they reach`d,
Whose sides to sea three promontories stretch`d,
Pachynos to the stormy south is plac`d,
On Lilybaeum blows the gentle west,
Peloro`s cliffs the northern bear survey,
Who rolls above, and dreads to touch the sea.
By this they steer, and favour`d by the tide,
Secure by night in Zancle`s harbour ride.
Here cruel Scylla guards the rocky shore,
And there the waves of loud Charybdis roar:
This sucks, and vomits ships, and bodies drown`d;
And rav`nous dogs the womb of that surround,
In face a virgin; and (if ought be true
By bards recorded) once a virgin too.
A train of youths in vain desir`d her bed;
By sea-nymphs lov`d, to nymphs of seas she fled;
The maid to these, with female pride, display`d
Their baffled courtship, and their love betray`d.
When Galatea thus bespoke the fair
(But first she sigh`d), while Scylla comb`d her
hair:
You, lovely maid, a gen`rous race pursues,
Whom safe you may (as now you do) refuse;
To me, tho` pow`rful in a num`rous train
Of sisters, sprung from Gods, who rule the main,
My native seas could scarce a refuge prove,
To shun the fury of the Cyclops` love,
Tears choak`d her utt`rance here; the pity`ng
maid
With marble fingers wip`d them off, and said:
My dearest Goddess, let thy Scylla know,
(For I am faithful) whence these sorrows flow.
The maid`s intreaties o`er the nymph prevail,
Who thus to Scylla tells the mournful tale.
The Story of Acis, the lovely youth, whose loss I mourn,
Acis, From Faunus, and the nymph Symethis born,
Polyphemus Was both his parents` pleasure; but, to me
and Galatea Was all that love could make a lover be.
The Gods our minds in mutual bands did join:
I was his only joy, and he was mine.
Now sixteen summers the sweet youth had seen;
And doubtful down began to shade his chin:
When Polyphemus first disturb`d our joy;
And lov`d me fiercely, as I lov`d the boy.
Ask not which passion in my soul was high`r,
My last aversion, or my first desire:
Nor this the greater was, nor that the less;
Both were alike, for both were in excess.
Thee, Venus, thee both Heav`n, and Earth obey;
Immense thy pow`r, and boundless is thy sway.
The Cyclops, who defy`d th` aetherial throne,
And thought no thunder louder than his own,
The terror of the woods, and wilder far
Than wolves in plains, or bears in forests are,
Th` inhuman host, who made his bloody feasts
On mangl`d members of his butcher`d guests,
Yet felt the force of love, and fierce desire,
And burnt for me, with unrelenting fire.
Forgot his caverns, and his woolly care,
Assum`d the softness of a lover`s air;
And comb`d, with teeth of rakes, his rugged hair.
Now with a crooked scythe his beard he sleeks;
And mows the stubborn stubble of his cheeks:
Now in the crystal stream he looks, to try
His simagres, and rowls his glaring eye.
His cruelty, and thirst of blood are lost;
And ships securely sail along the coast.
The prophet Telemus (arriv`d by chance
Where Aetna`s summets to the seas advance,
Who mark`d the tracts of every bird that flew,
And sure presages from their flying drew)
Foretold the Cyclops, that Ulysses` hand
In his broad eye shou`d thrust a flaming brand.
The giant, with a scornful grin, reply`d,
Vain augur, thou hast falsely prophesy`d;
Already love his flaming brand has tost;
Looking on two fair eyes, my sight I lost,
Thus, warn`d in vain, with stalking pace he strode,
And stamp`d the margin of the briny flood
With heavy steps; and weary, sought agen
The cool retirement of his gloomy den.
A promontory, sharp`ning by degrees,
Ends in a wedge, and overlooks the seas:
On either side, below, the water flows;
This airy walk the giant lover chose.
Here on the midst he sate; his flocks, unled,
Their shepherd follow`d, and securely fed.
A pine so burly, and of length so vast,
That sailing ships requir`d it for a mast,
He wielded for a staff, his steps to guide:
But laid it by, his whistle while he try`d.
A hundred reeds of a prodigious growth,
Scarce made a pipe, proportion`d to his mouth:
Which when he gave it wind, the rocks around,
And watry plains, the dreadful hiss resound.
I heard the ruffian-shepherd rudely blow,
Where, in a hollow cave, I sat below;
On Acis` bosom I my head reclin`d:
And still preserve the poem in my mind.
Oh lovely Galatea, whiter far
Than falling snows, and rising lillies are;
More flowry than the meads, as chrystal bright:
Erect as alders, and of equal height:
More wanton than a kid, more sleek thy skin,
Than orient shells, that on the shores are seen,
Than apples fairer, when the boughs they lade;
Pleasing, as winter suns, or summer shade:
More grateful to the sight, than goodly plains;
And softer to the touch, than down of swans;
Or curds new turn`d; and sweeter to the taste
Than swelling grapes, that to the vintage haste:
More clear than ice, or running streams, that stray
Through garden plots, but ah! more swift than they.
Yet, Galatea, harder to be broke
Than bullocks, unreclaim`d, to bear the yoke,
And far more stubborn, than the knotted oak:
Like sliding streams, impossible to hold;
Like them, fallacious, like their fountains, cold.
More warping, than the willow, to decline
My warm embrace, more brittle, than the vine;
Immovable, and fixt in thy disdain:
Tough, as these rocks, and of a harder grain.
More violent, than is the rising flood;
And the prais`d peacock is not half so proud.
Fierce, as the fire, and sharp, as thistles are,
And more outragious, than a mother-bear:
Deaf, as the billows to the vows I make;
And more revengeful, than a trodden snake.
In swiftness fleeter, than the flying hind,
Or driven tempests, or the driving wind.
All other faults, with patience I can bear;
But swiftness is the vice I only fear.
Yet if you knew me well, you wou`d not shun
My love, but to my wish`d embraces run:
Wou`d languish in your turn, and court my stay;
And much repent of your unwise delay.
My palace, in the living rock, is made
By Nature`s hand; a spacious pleasing shade:
Which neither heat can pierce, nor cold invade.
My garden fill`d with fruits you may behold,
And grapes in clusters, imitating gold;
Some blushing bunches of a purple hue:
And these, and those, are all reserv`d for you.
Red strawberries, in shades, expecting stand,
Proud to be gather`d by so white a hand.
Autumnal cornels latter fruit provide;
And plumbs, to tempt you, turn their glossy side:
Not those of common kinds; but such alone,
As in Phaeacian orchards might have grown:
Nor chestnuts shall be wanting to your food,
Nor garden-fruits, nor wildings of the wood;
The laden boughs for you alone shall bear;
And yours shall be the product of the year.
The flocks you see, are all my own; beside
The rest that woods, and winding vallies hide;
And those that folded in the caves abide.
Ask not the numbers of my growing store;
Who knows how many, knows he has no more.
Nor will I praise my cattle; trust not me,
But judge your self, and pass your own decree:
Behold their swelling dugs; the sweepy weight
Of ewes, that sink beneath the milky freight;
In the warm folds their tender lambkins lye;
Apart from kids, that call with human cry.
New milk in nut-brown bowls is duely serv`d
For daily drink; the rest for cheese reserv`d.
Nor are these household dainties all my store:
The fields, and forests will afford us more;
The deer, the hare, the goat, the savage boar.
All sorts of ven`son; and of birds the best;
A pair of turtles taken from the nest.
I walk`d the mountains, and two cubs I found
(Whose dam had left `em on the naked ground),
So like, that no distinction could be seen:
So pretty, they were presents for a queen;
And so they shall; I took them both away;
And keep, to be companions of your play.
Oh raise, fair nymph, your beauteous face above
The waves; nor scorn my presents, and my love.
Come, Galatea, come, and view my face;
I late beheld it, in the watry glass;
And found it lovelier, than I fear`d it was.
Survey my towring stature, and my size:
Not Jove, the Jove you dream, that rules the skies,
Bears such a bulk, or is so largely spread:
My locks (the plenteous harvest of my head)
Hang o`er my manly face; and dangling down,
As with a shady grove, my shoulders crown.
Nor think, because my limbs and body bear
A thick-set underwood of bristling hair,
My shape deform`d; what fouler sight can be,
Than the bald branches of a leafless tree?
Foul is the steed without a flowing mane:
And birds, without their feathers, and their train.
Wool decks the sheep; and Man receives a grace
From bushy limbs, and from a bearded face.
My forehead with a single eye is fill`d,
Round, as a ball, and ample, as a shield.
The glorious lamp of Heav`n, the radiant sun,
Is Nature`s eye; and she`s content with one.
Add, that my father sways your seas, and I,
Like you, am of the watry family.
I make you his, in making you my own;
You I adore; and kneel to you alone:
Jove, with his fabled thunder, I despise,
And only fear the lightning of your eyes.
Frown not, fair nymph; yet I cou`d bear to be
Disdain`d, if others were disdain`d with me.
But to repulse the Cyclops, and prefer
The love of Acis (Heav`ns!) I cannot bear.
But let the stripling please himself; nay more,
Please you, tho` that`s the thing I most abhor;
The boy shall find, if e`er we cope in fight,
These giant limbs, endu`d with giant might.
His living bowels from his belly torn,
And scatter`d limbs shall on the flood be born:
Thy flood, ungrateful nymph; and fate shall find,
That way for thee, and Acis to be join`d.
For oh! I burn with love, and thy disdain
Augments at once my passion, and my pain.
Translated Aetna flames within my heart,
And thou, inhuman, wilt not ease my smart.
Lamenting thus in vain, he rose, and strode
With furious paces to the neighb`ring wood:
Restless his feet, distracted was his walk;
Mad were his motions, and confus`d his talk.
Mad, as the vanquish`d bull, when forc`d to yield
His lovely mistress, and forsake the field.
Thus far unseen I saw: when fatal chance,
His looks directing, with a sudden glance,
Acis and I were to his sight betray`d;
Where, nought suspecting, we securely play`d.
From his wide mouth a bellowing cry he cast,
I see, I see; but this shall be your last:
A roar so loud made Aetna to rebound:
And all the Cyclops labour`d in the sound.
Affrighted with his monstrous voice, I fled,
And in the neighbouring ocean plung`d my head.
Poor Acis turn`d his back, and Help, he cry`d,
Help, Galatea, help, my parent Gods,
And take me dying to your deep abodes.
The Cyclops follow`d; but he sent before
A rib, which from the living rock he tore:
Though but an angle reach`d him of the stone,
The mighty fragment was enough alone,
To crush all Acis; `twas too late to save,
But what the Fates allow`d to give, I gave:
That Acis to his lineage should return;
And rowl, among the river Gods, his urn.
Straight issu`d from the stone a stream of blood;
Which lost the purple, mingling with the flood,
Then, like a troubled torrent, it appear`d:
The torrent too, in little space, was clear`d.
The stone was cleft, and through the yawning chink
New reeds arose, on the new river`s brink.
The rock, from out its hollow womb, disclos`d
A sound like water in its course oppos`d,
When (wond`rous to behold), full in the flood,
Up starts a youth, and navel high he stood.
Horns from his temples rise; and either horn
Thick wreaths of reeds (his native growth) adorn.
Were not his stature taller than before,
His bulk augmented, and his beauty more,
His colour blue; for Acis he might pass:
And Acis chang`d into a stream he was,
But mine no more; he rowls along the plains
With rapid motion, and his name retains.
The Story of Here ceas`d the nymph; the fair assembly broke,
Glaucus and The sea-green Nereids to the waves betook:
Scylla While Scylla, fearful of the wide-spread main,
Swift to the safer shore returns again.
There o`er the sandy margin, unarray`d,
With printless footsteps flies the bounding maid;
Or in some winding creek`s secure retreat
She baths her weary limbs, and shuns the noonday`s
heat.
Her Glaucus saw, as o`er the deep he rode,
New to the seas, and late receiv`d a God.
He saw, and languish`d for the virgin`s love;
With many an artful blandishment he strove
Her flight to hinder, and her fears remove.
The more he sues, the more she wings her flight,
And nimbly gains a neighb`ring mountain`s height.
Steep shelving to the margin of the flood,
A neighb`ring mountain bare, and woodless stood;
Here, by the place secur`d, her steps she stay`d,
And, trembling still, her lover`s form survey`d.
His shape, his hue, her troubled sense appall,
And dropping locks that o`er his shoulders fall;
She sees his face divine, and manly brow,
End in a fish`s wreathy tail below:
She sees, and doubts within her anxious mind,
Whether he comes of God, or monster kind.
This Glaucus soon perceiv`d; and, Oh! forbear
(His hand supporting on a rock lay near),
Forbear, he cry`d, fond maid, this needless fear.
Nor fish am I, nor monster of the main,
But equal with the watry Gods I reign;
Nor Proteus, nor Palaemon me excell,
Nor he whose breath inspires the sounding shell.
My birth, `tis true, I owe to mortal race,
And I my self but late a mortal was:
Ev`n then in seas, and seas alone, I joy`d;
The seas my hours, and all my cares employ`d,
In meshes now the twinkling prey I drew;
Now skilfully the slender line I threw,
And silent sat the moving float to view.
Not far from shore, there lies a verdant mead,
With herbage half, and half with water spread:
There, nor the horned heifers browsing stray,
Nor shaggy kids, nor wanton lambkins play;
There, nor the sounding bees their nectar cull,
Nor rural swains their genial chaplets pull,
Nor flocks, nor herds, nor mowers haunt the place,
To crop the flow`rs, or cut the bushy grass:
Thither, sure first of living race came I,
And sat by chance, my dropping nets to dry.
My scaly prize, in order all display`d,
By number on the greensward there I lay`d,
My captives, whom or in my nets I took,
Or hung unwary on my wily hook.
Strange to behold! yet what avails a lye?
I saw `em bite the grass, as I sate by;
Then sudden darting o`er the verdant plain,
They spread their finns, as in their native main:
I paus`d, with wonder struck, while all my prey
Left their new master, and regain`d the sea.
Amaz`d, within my secret self I sought,
What God, what herb the miracle had wrought:
But sure no herbs have pow`r like this, I cry`d;
And strait I pluck`d some neighb`ring herbs, and
try`d.
Scarce had I bit, and prov`d the wond`rous taste,
When strong convulsions shook my troubled breast;
I felt my heart grow fond of something strange,
And my whole Nature lab`ring with a change.
Restless I grew, and ev`ry place forsook,
And still upon the seas I bent my look.
Farewel for ever! farewel, land! I said;
And plung`d amidst the waves my sinking head.
The gentle Pow`rs, who that low empire keep,
Receiv`d me as a brother of the deep;
To Tethys, and to Ocean old, they pray
To purge my mortal earthy parts away.
The watry parents to their suit agreed,
And thrice nine times a secret charm they read,
Then with lustrations purify my limbs,
And bid me bathe beneath a hundred streams:
A hundred streams from various fountains run,
And on my head at once come rushing down.
Thus far each passage I remember well,
And faithfully thus far the tale I tell;
But then oblivion dark, on all my senses fell.
Again at length my thought reviving came,
When I no longer found my self the same;
Then first this sea-green beard I felt to grow,
And these large honours on my spreading brow;
My long-descending locks the billows sweep,
And my broad shoulders cleave the yielding deep;
My fishy tail, my arms of azure hue,
And ev`ry part divinely chang`d, I view.
But what avail these useless honours now?
What joys can immortality bestow?
What, tho` our Nereids all my form approve?
What boots it, while fair Scylla scorns my love?
Thus far the God; and more he wou`d have said;
When from his presence flew the ruthless maid.
Stung with repulse, in such disdainful sort,
He seeks Titanian Circe`s horrid court.
The End of the Thirteenth Book.
Translated into English verse under the direction of
Sir Samuel Garth by John Dryden, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison,
William Congreve and other eminent hands
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