Metamorphoses

by Ovid

So Argos perished: fires, All fires that were his glancing sight put out; A single darkness filled his hundred eyes. With jeweller’s art the raging Juno—she Was Saturn’s daughter in her frenzy—set The monster’s eyes as stars in the tail feathers Of her pet bird, the peacock, then inflamed With further rages called the dread Erinyes, Instructed one of them to haunt poor Io, Until the creature, fear eating at its heart, Ran mad by day, by night, throughout the world. And not until she reached the blessed Nile Were trials exhausted, and the curse grown weak Permitted her to fall upon her knees, To raise her face, her forelegs in the sand, Until she saw the stars, to moo, to weep, To moan at Jove and send her hopes to heaven.

The palace of the Sun rose up in columns Of flaming gold and brass: ivory the ceiling, And double palace doors were bright as mirrors In silver light, and yet more valuable Than gold and silver was the craft that made them. Across their panels Vulcan carved the waters That held mid-earth, its continents and islands And sky above it, and in seas below The dark gods: song-lipped Triton, ever shifting Proteus, Aegaeon, his arms tossed round The backs of two great whales; beside them, Doris And her daughters, mermaids, some gliding Through glassy waves, and other girls rock-seated Sunning green hair while others as though racing The spray on backs of fishes, each with her own Gesture and look, were sisterly, of one Large family of the sea. Then men and cities, Girls of the forest, nymphs, and all the little Provincial deities and on each panel Above them wheeled the blazing sky, six signs Of Zodiac on right and six on left.

Phoebus in purple, glowing With emeralds, and to his left and right Stood Day, Month, Year, Century, and all The Hours at equal distance from each other; Then early Spring with flowers in his hair, And naked Summer with a wreath of wheat, Autumn, whose feet were stained with new-pressed wine, Winter, whose white hair was an icy crown. The Sun sat in the center of the hall; His eyes glanced everywhere and fixed the boy Who stood trembling at the new world he saw, To whom Sun said, “Why here, Phaethon? What do you look for in my aethereal chambers? To meet a father? You, the son no father Should deny?” The boy said, “O All-Seeing Light of this great world, O Father Phoebus (If you will give me right to call you so) If Clymene does not conceal an error In sinful dark, in what she hopes is true O let me clean my spirit of all doubt, Give me the signature of what I am.”

At once Minerva went to Envy’s cave, A hovel, dark with blood, in a deep valley, Hidden where no sun ventures, no wind stirs, And night air falling with continual cold; No fires were lit to temper rain and fog. War’s virgin stood aside, nor would she enter That fouled dwelling, but clanged her spear against Its sagging doors, which, swaying inward, showed Envy at feast, eating great snakes and vipers, A perfect diet for increase of venom. The goddess, sick at the unholy sight, Turned eyes away, while Envy, leaving scraps Of half-chewed meats upon the floor, lunged To her feet and shambled toward Minerva Who stately stood in armour. Envy moaned, Changing her face to suit Minerva’s sigh, Grew death-pale, and her body seemed to shrink, Eyes wild, teeth thick with mold, gall dripping green To breast, green from her tongue, for Envy never Smiles unless she sees another’s misery; Envy is sleepless, her heart anxiety, And at the sight of any man’s success She withers, is bitten, eats herself away. Although Minerva hated what she saw In the foul creature’s face, she gave instructions, Clipping her speech: “Make it your duty, woman, To infect Aglauros, one of Cecrops’ daughters, So that your poison streams within her veins,” And with this said, she thrust her spear to earth, And swiftly, lightly vaulted back to heaven.

But as Diana bathed—and Fate would have it— Actaeon, Cadmus’ grandson, at his leisure, Strolling through unknown ways half-stumbled Into Diana’s arbour: as he stepped through The raining fountain spray that fell around him Diana’s naked girls beat their small breasts And filled the cave with sharp, falsetto cries, And tried to shield her with their nakedness. They gathered round Diana in a circle Yet the tall goddess stood head-high above them; Flushed as the clouds at sunset or rose-colored As the first hour at dawn, Diana seemed More naked to the view than all the rest. Then as her girls closed in the ring around her, She glanced a sidelong look across her shoulder As though she wished her arrows were at hand, But failing these, splashed water, sharp as rain, In Actaeon’s face, and through his streaming hair Foretold his fate: “If you can talk, then speak, Say that you saw Diana in undress.” And as she spoke his wet hair branched in antlers Worn by the lively stag; his neck grew long, Ears pointed, hands were hoofs, arms were thin legs. And all his body a short-furred, spotted skin.

TIRESIAS While these events had taken place on earth By will of Fate and twice-born Bacchus safe Within his crib, it came about that Jove, Wine in his veins, grew cheerful and dismissed Affairs of state to joke awhile with Juno: “And I insist you women have more joy In making love than men; we do the work, While you have all the fun.” But she denied it, So they agreed to settle their dispute By calling wise Tiresias to court To be their judge—he who knew well enough The two extremes of Venus’ subtle arts: One day while walking through a green-grown wood He thrust his stick between two monstrously Large and love-joined serpents (and then, O mir- Acle!) was changed into a woman, and as A woman lived for seven autumns. Then, As he came to the eighth autumn he saw The same two creatures in the act of love, And stopped to say, “If miracles are done To those who strike at you and sex is changed, I strike again—” And so he did; at once His gender shifted to his sex at birth.

‘O cold and bitter wall,’ they said, ‘why stand Between two lovers at your side? Let limbs And bodies join; at least open your gate To take our kisses. Yet we do not show Ingratitude, nor shall we, nor forget The way through which our words met lovers’ ears.’ Divided as they were, each futile day Was spent in whispers, closing with ‘Good night.’ Both pressed their lips against the silent wall.

“Under the Western axis grazed Sun’s horses. Instead of grass they ate ambrosia; There they took ease after a long day’s labour, Refreshed themselves to ride the skies of dawn, And while they took their fill of heaven’s dinner, And Night took over rule of earth and sky, Sun, dressed as though he were Leucothoe’s mother, Entered the young girl’s room, she at the center Of twelve girls, twirling the spindle, threading The delicate white wool. He stooped to kiss her As a mother would have kissed her and remarked, ‘I come to talk of intimate affairs To you, my dear, which is a mother’s duty, And all the others have to leave the room. Get out, you slaves!’ And when the last had left, He turned to her to say, ‘I am the one Who makes all seasons of the year, each day, Each hour, who sees all things, who opens The world’s eye to all earth’s wonders, who looks At you with infinite delight.’ The girl Went weak with terror; distaff and spindle dropped From helpless fingers, and the god, revealed, Showed her his sudden heat, his manliness, At which she trembled, yet could not resist it; She welcomed the invasion of the Sun.

He turned his face from Perseus, spread his fingers As if admitting his defeat, and cried, “O Perseus, you have truly conquered me, Put that monstrosity away, Medusa-Gorgon That changes men to stone—whoever she, Whatever it may be, take it away! Nor was it hate of you but wild ambition That made me fight, and fight for her who should Have been my bride. You have the greater valour, And I the elder promise she was mine. Now I want nothing except the right to live, O powerful and brave! All else is yours.” He feared to look at Perseus, who replied, “Dear timid Phineus, put aside your worries. I have a gift, a great gift too, to raise low spirits, I will not let you perish by the sword, And you shall be a monument forever, Here in the palace of my fond in-laws, Where my young wife can look at you with ease— The perfect image of a future husband.” At this he swung the Gorgon’s head to face The terror-haunted and averted eyes Of Phineus, whose neck at once grew rigid, And tears of onyx hung upon his cheeks. Here, as if fixed for all eternity, Were weeping features and a beggar’s gaze, Hands reaching out for mercy in despair.

Earth opened to me down to deepest dark, And floating through its underwater channels I raised my head as if to turn my eyes Toward stars almost forgotten to my sight, And as I drifted through the Styx I saw Persephone herself; she seemed in tears, Even then her face still held its look of terror, Yet she was like a queen, true wife, regina Of that dictator who rules underground.”

Day’s journey of the Sun had nearly ended, Westward his horses steered behind Olympus. Royal supper served, red wine in golden vessels, Feasted and drunk, the palace fell asleep, But not Tereus—though he went to bed, His mind still boiled with thoughts of Philomela, Her glance, how she moved her feet and hands— And what he had not seen he well imagined, Which fed his furnace high and drove off sleep.

At which the tyrant’s anger rose in flames, No less his fear; quickened by both, he drew Sword from its scabbard at his side, and seized His mistress by her hair and pinned her arms Behind her as he bound them. Philomela Saw the sword flash before her eyes and gave Her neck to meet the blow, to welcome death; Instead he thrust sharp tongs between her teeth, Her tongue still crying out her father’s name. Then as the forceps caught the tongue, his steel Sliced through it, its roots still beating while the rest Turned, moaning on black earth; as the bruised tail Of a dying serpent lashes, so her tongue Crept, throbbed, and whimpered at her feet. This done The tryant (it was said; we scarce accept it) Renewed his pleasure on her wounded body. Carrying his guilt he entered Procne’s rooms, And when his wife asked where her sister was, He lied and sobbed, spoke of her sister’s death: His very tears made what he said seem true.

She cried aloud, “Medea, wits are futile Against this heat. Some god’s bewitched my senses, Chained my will. Is this called love? Why do The trials my father offers these young men Seem difficult and cruel? His price is high: Why do I fear the death of one I’ve seen But for a moment and for the first time only? What lies behind this fear? Then come, Medea, Tear out the flames that scorch your innocent heart, You poor, unlucky child! Brace up, my darling, Be yourself again: O if I could, I would, But now against my will an unknown power Has made me weak: heat sways me one way, And my mind another: I see the wiser, Yet I take the wrong. And why do you, king’s Daughter as you are, grow hot with love because You see a stranger? To seek a wedding bed In an alien world? There’s much to love At home. And if he lives or dies? Gods’ will Takes care of that. And yet I hope he lives! Let me hope, pray for him, and yet not love!