---

Ovid - Metamorphoses: Book The Sixth
Work rating: Low

1 2 
                   Too fondly swerving from th` intended part;
                   Her injur`d sister`s face again she view`d:
                   And, as by turns surveying both she stood,
                   While this fond boy (she said) can thus express
                   The moving accents of his fond address;
                   Why stands my sister of her tongue bereft,
                   Forlorn, and sad, in speechless silence left?
                   O Procne, see the fortune of your house!
                   Such is your fate, when match`d to such a spouse!
                   Conjugal duty, if observ`d to him,
                   Would change from virtue, and become a crime;
                   For all respect to Tereus must debase
                   The noble blood of great Pandion`s race.
                     Strait at these words, with big resentment
                       fill`d,
                   Furious her look, she flew, and seiz`d her child;
                   Like a fell tigress of the savage kind,
                   That drags the tender suckling of the hind
                   Thro` India`s gloomy groves, where Ganges laves
                   The shady scene, and rouls his streamy waves.
                     Now to a close apartment they were come,
                   Far off retir`d within the spacious dome;
                   When Procne, on revengeful mischief bent,
                   Home to his heart a piercing ponyard sent.
                   Itys, with rueful cries, but all too late,
                   Holds out his hands, and deprecates his fate;
                   Still at his mother`s neck he fondly aims,
                   And strives to melt her with endearing names;
                   Yet still the cruel mother perseveres,
                   Nor with concern his bitter anguish hears.
                   This might suffice; but Philomela too
                   Across his throat a shining curtlass drew.
                   Then both, with knives, dissect each quiv`ring
                       part,
                   And carve the butcher`d limbs with cruel art;
                   Which, whelm`d in boiling cauldrons o`er the fire,
                   Or turn`d on spits, in steamy smoak aspire:
                   While the long entries, with their slipp`ry floor,
                   Run down in purple streams of clotted gore.
                     Ask`d by his wife to this inhuman feast,
                   Tereus unknowingly is made a guest:
                   Whilst she her plot the better to disguise,
                   Styles it some unknown mystick sacrifice;
                   And such the nature of the hallow`d rite,
                   The wife her husband only could invite,
                   The slaves must all withdraw, and be debarr`d the
                       sight.
                   Tereus, upon a throne of antique state,
                   Loftily rais`d, before the banquet sate;
                   And glutton like, luxuriously pleas`d,
                   With his own flesh his hungry maw appeas`d.
                   Nay, such a blindness o`er his senses falls,
                   That he for Itys to the table calls.
                   When Procne, now impatient to disclose
                   The joy that from her full revenge arose,
                   Cries out, in transports of a cruel mind,
                   Within your self your Itys you may find.
                   Still, at this puzzling answer, with surprise,
                   Around the room he sends his curious eyes;
                   And, as he still inquir`d, and call`d aloud,
                   Fierce Philomela, all besmear`d with blood,
                   Her hands with murder stain`d, her spreading hair
                   Hanging dishevel`d with a ghastly air,
                   Stept forth, and flung full in the tyrant`s face
                   The head of Itys, goary as it was:
                   Nor ever so much to use her tongue,
                   And with a just reproach to vindicate her wrong.
                     The Thracian monarch from the table flings,
                   While with his cries the vaulted parlour rings;
                   His imprecations eccho down to Hell,
                   And rouze the snaky Furies from their Stygian cell.
                   One while he labours to disgorge his breast,
                   And free his stomach from the cursed feast;
                   Then, weeping o`er his lamentable doom,
                   He styles himself his son`s sepulchral tomb.
                   Now, with drawn sabre, and impetuous speed,
                   In close pursuit he drives Pandion`s breed;
                   Whose nimble feet spring with so swift a force
                   Across the fields, they seem to wing their course.
                   And now, on real wings themselves they raise,
                   And steer their airy flight by diff`rent ways;
                   One to the woodland`s shady covert hies,
                   Around the smoaky roof the other flies;
                   Whose feathers yet the marks of murder stain,
                   Where stampt upon her breast, the crimson spots
                       remain.
                   Tereus, through grief, and haste to be reveng`d,
                   Shares the like fate, and to a bird is chang`d:
                   Fix`d on his head, the crested plumes appear,
                   Long is his beak, and sharpen`d like a spear;
                   Thus arm`d, his looks his inward mind display,
                   And, to a lapwing turn`d, he fans his way.
                   Exceeding trouble, for his children`s fate,
                   Shorten`d Pandion`s days, and chang`d his date;
                   Down to the shades below, with sorrow spent,
                   An earlier, unexpected ghost he went.
  Boreas in Love     Erechtheus next th` Athenian sceptre sway`d,
                   Whose rule the state with joynt consent obey`d;
                   So mix`d his justice with his valour flow`d,
                   His reign one scene of princely goodness shew`d.
                   Four hopeful youths, as many females bright,
                   Sprung from his loyns, and sooth`d him with
                       delight.
                     Two of these sisters, of a lovelier air,
                   Excell`d the rest, tho` all the rest were fair.
                   Procris, to Cephalus in wedlock ty`d,
                   Bless`d the young silvan with a blooming bride:
                   For Orithyia Boreas suffer`d pain,
                   For the coy maid sued long, but sued in vain;
                   Tereus his neighbour, and his Thracian blood,
                   Against the match a main objection stood;
                   Which made his vows, and all his suppliant love,
                   Empty as air and ineffectual prove.
                     But when he found his soothing flatt`ries fail,
                   Nor saw his soft addresses cou`d avail;
                   Blust`ring with ire, he quickly has recourse
                   To rougher arts, and his own native force.
                   `Tis well, he said; such usage is my due,
                   When thus disguis`d by foreign ways I sue;
                   When my stern airs, and fierceness I disclaim,
                   And sigh for love, ridiculously tame;
                   When soft addresses foolishly I try,
                   Nor my own stronger remedies apply.
                   By force and violence I chiefly live,
                   By them the lowring stormy tempests drive;
                   In foaming billows raise the hoary deep,
                   Writhe knotted oaks, and sandy desarts sweep;
                   Congeal the falling flakes of fleecy snow,
                   And bruise, with ratling hall, the plains below.
                   I, and my brother-winds, when joyn`d above,
                   Thro` the waste champian of the skies we rove,
                   With such a boist`rous full career engage,
                   That Heav`n`s whole concave thunders at our rage.
                   While, struck from nitrous clouds, fierce
                       lightnings play,
                   Dart thro` the storm, and gild the gloomy day.
                   Or when, in subterraneous caverns pent,
                   My breath, against the hollow Earth, is bent,
                   The quaking world above, and ghosts below,
                   My mighty pow`r, by dear experience, know,
                   Tremble with fear, and dread the fatal blow.
                   This is the only cure to be apply`d,
                   Thus to Erechtheus I should be ally`d;
                   And thus the scornful virgin should be woo`d,
                   Not by intreaty, but by force subdu`d.
                     Boreas, in passion, spoke these huffing things,
                   And, as he spoke, he shook his dreadful wings;
                   At which, afar the shiv`ring sea was fan`d,
                   And the wide surface of the distant land:
                   His dusty mantle o`er the hills he drew,
                   And swept the lowly vallies, as he flew;
                   Then, with his yellow wings, embrac`d the maid,
                   And, wrapt in dusky clouds, far off convey`d.
                   The sparkling blaze of Love`s prevailing fire
                   Shone brighter as he flew, and flam`d the higher.
                   And now the God, possess`d of his delight,
                   To northern Thrace pursu`d his airy flight,
                   Where the young ravish`d nymph became his bride,
                   And soon the luscious sweets of wedlock try`d.
                     Two lovely twins, th` effect of this embrace,
                   Crown their soft labours, and their nuptials grace;
                   Who, like their mother, beautiful, and fair,
                   Their father`s strength, and feather`d pinions
                       share:
                   Yet these, at first, were wanting, as `tis said,
                   And after, as they grew, their shoulders spread.
                   Zethes and Calais, the pretty twins,
                   Remain`d unfledg`d, while smooth their beardless
                       chins;
                   But when, in time, the budding silver down
                   Shaded their face, and on their cheeks was grown,
                   Two sprouting wings upon their shoulders sprung,
                   Like those in birds, that veil the callow young.
                   Then as their age advanc`d, and they began
                   From greener youth to ripen into man,
                   With Jason`s Argonauts they cross`d the seas,
                   Embark`d in quest of the fam`d golden fleece;
                   There, with the rest, the first frail vessel try`d,
                   And boldly ventur`d on the swelling tide.

                              The End of the Sixth 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
Source
The script ran 0.01 seconds.