---

Ovid - Metamorphoses: Book The Eleventh
Work rating: Low

1 2 
                   Fain would she hope, and gaz`d upon the ground,
                   If any printed footsteps might be found.
                     Then sigh`d, and said: This I too well foreknew,
                   And my prophetick fears presag`d too true:
                   `Twas what I begg`d, when with a bleeding heart
                   I took my leave, and suffer`d thee to part;
                   Or I to go along, or thou to stay,
                   Never, ah never to divide our way!
                   Happier for me, that all our hours assign`d
                   Together we had liv`d; ev`n not in death disjoin`d!
                   So had my Ceyx still been living here,
                   Or with my Ceyx I had perish`d there:
                   Now I die absent, in the vast profound;
                   And me, without my self, the seas have drown`d.
                   The storms were not so cruel: should I strive
                   To lengthen life, and such a grief survive;
                   But neither will I strive, nor wretched thee
                   In death forsake, but keep thee company.
                   If not one common sepulchre contains
                   Our bodies, or one urn our last remains,
                   Yet Ceyx and Alcyone shall join,
                   Their names remember`d in one common line.
                     No farther voice her mighty grief affords,
                   For sighs come rushing in betwixt her words,
                   And stop`d her tongue; but what her tongue deny`d,
                   Soft tears, and groans, and dumb complaints
                       supply`d.
                     `Twas morning; to the port she takes her way,
                   And stands upon the margin of the sea:
                   That place, that very spot of ground she sought,
                   Or thither by her destiny was brought,
                   Where last he stood: and while she sadly said,
                   `Twas here he left me, lingring here delay`d
                   His parting kiss, and there his anchors weigh`d.
                     Thus speaking, while her thoughts past actions
                       trace,
                   And call to mind, admonish`d by the place,
                   Sharp at her utmost ken she cast her eyes,
                   And somewhat floating from afar descries:
                   It seems a corps a-drift to distant sight,
                   But at a distance who could judge aright?
                   It wafted nearer yet, and then she knew,
                   That what before she but surmis`d, was true:
                   A corps it was, but whose it was, unknown,
                   Yet mov`d, howe`er, she made the cause her own.
                   Took the bad omen of a shipwreck`d man,
                   As for a stranger wept, and thus began.
                     Poor wretch, on stormy seas to lose thy life,
                   Unhappy thou, but more thy widow`d wife;
                   At this she paus`d: for now the flowing tide
                   Had brought the body nearer to the side:
                   The more she looks, the more her fears increase,
                   At nearer sight; and she`s her self the less:
                   Now driv`n ashore, and at her feet it lies,
                   She knows too much in knowing whom she sees:
                   Her husband`s corps; at this she loudly shrieks,
                   `Tis he, `tis he, she cries, and tears her cheeks,
                   Her hair, and vest; and stooping to the sands,
                   About his neck she cast her trembling hands.
                     And is it thus, o dearer than my life,
                   Thus, thus return`st thou to thy longing wife!
                   She said, and to the neighbouring mole she strode,
                   (Rais`d there to break th` incursions of the
                       flood).
                     Headlong from hence to plunge her self she
                       springs,
                   But shoots along, supported on her wings;
                   A bird new-made, about the banks she plies,
                   Not far from shore, and short excursions tries;
                   Nor seeks in air her humble flight to raise,
                   Content to skim the surface of the seas:
                   Her bill tho` slender, sends a creaking noise,
                   And imitates a lamentable voice.
                   Now lighting where the bloodless body lies,
                   She with a fun`ral note renews her cries:
                   At all her stretch, her little wings she spread,
                   And with her feather`d arms embrac`d the dead:
                   Then flick`ring to his palid lips, she strove
                   To print a kiss, the last essay of love.
                   Whether the vital touch reviv`d the dead,
                   Or that the moving waters rais`d his head
                   To meet the kiss, the vulgar doubt alone;
                   For sure a present miracle was shown.
                   The Gods their shapes to winter-birds translate,
                   But both obnoxious to their former fate.
                   Their conjugal affection still is ty`d,
                   And still the mournful race is multiply`d:
                   They bill, they tread; Alcyone compress`d,
                   Sev`n days sits brooding on her floating nest:
                   A wintry queen: her sire at length is kind,
                   Calms ev`ry storm, and hushes ev`ry wind;
                   Prepares his empire for his daughter`s ease,
                   And for his hatching nephews smooths the seas.
      Aesacus        These some old man sees wanton in the air,
    transform`d    And praises the unhappy constant pair.
      into a       Then to his friend the long-neck`d corm`rant shows,
     Cormorant     The former tale reviving others` woes:
                   That sable bird, he cries, which cuts the flood
                   With slender legs, was once of royal blood;
                   His ancestors from mighty Tros proceed,
                   The brave Laomedon, and Ganymede
                   (Whose beauty tempted Jove to steal the boy),
                   And Priam, hapless prince! who fell with Troy:
                   Himself was Hector`s brother, and (had Fate
                   But giv`n this hopeful youth a longer date)
                   Perhaps had rival`d warlike Hector`s worth,
                   Tho` on the mother`s side of meaner birth;
                   Fair Alyxothoe, a country maid,
                   Bare Aesacus by stealth in Ida`s shade.
                   He fled the noisy town, and pompous court,
                   Lov`d the lone hills, and simple rural sport.
                   And seldom to the city would resort.
                   Yet he no rustick clownishness profest,
                   Nor was soft love a stranger to his breast:
                   The youth had long the nymph Hesperie woo`d,
                   Oft thro` the thicket, or the mead pursu`d:
                   Her haply on her father`s bank he spy`d,
                   While fearless she her silver tresses dry`d;
                   Away she fled: not stags with half such speed,
                   Before the prowling wolf, scud o`er the mead;
                   Not ducks, when they the safer flood forsake,
                   Pursu`d by hawks, so swift regain the lake.
                   As fast he follow`d in the hot career;
                   Desire the lover wing`d, the virgin fear.
                   A snake unseen now pierc`d her heedless foot;
                   Quick thro` the veins the venom`d juices shoot:
                   She fell, and `scap`d by death his fierce pursuit;
                   Her lifeless body, frighted, he embrac`d,
                   And cry`d, Not this I dreaded, but thy haste:
                   O had my love been less, or less thy fear!
                   The victory, thus bought, is far too dear.
                   Accursed snake! yet I more curs`d than he!
                   He gave the wound; the cause was given by me.
                   Yet none shall say, that unreveng`d you dy`d.
                   He spoke; then climb`d a cliff`s o`er-hanging side,
                   And, resolute, leap`d on the foaming tide.
                   Tethys receiv`d him gently on the wave;
                   The death he sought deny`d, and feathers gave.
                   Debarr`d the surest remedy of grief,
                   And forc`d to live, he curst th` unask`d relief.
                   Then on his airy pinions upward flies,
                   And at a second fall successless tries;
                   The downy plume a quick descent denies.
                   Enrag`d, he often dives beneath the wave,
                   And there in vain expects to find a grave.
                   His ceaseless sorrow for th` unhappy maid,
                   Meager`d his look, and on his spirits prey`d.
                   Still near the sounding deep he lives; his name
                   From frequent diving and emerging came.

                             The End of the Eleventh 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 0.005 seconds.