“Here Arethusa ceas'd. Then Ceres yokes
“The coupled dragons to her car, their mouths
“Curb'd by the reins; and through the air is borne,
“Midway 'twixt heaven and earth. At Pallas' town
“Arriv'd, Triptolemus the car ascends,
“By her commission'd;—bade to spread the seed
“Entrusted: part on ground untill'd before;
“And part on land which long had fallow laid.
“O'er Europe now, and Asia's lands, the youth
“Sublimely sails, and reaches Scythia's clime,
“Where Lyncus rul'd. Beneath the monarch's roof,
“Here enter'd; and to him, who curious sought
“How there he journey'd; what his journey's cause;
“His name, and country; thus the youth reply'd.—
“Athens the fam'd, my country; and my name
“Triptolemus: but neither o'er the main,
“Borne in a ship, nor travelling slow by land,
“I hither came; my path was through the air.
“I bring the gift of Ceres; scatter'd wide
“Through all your spacious fields, quickly restor'd
“In fruitful crops the wholesome food will spring.
“The barbarous monarch, envious he should bear
“So great a blessing, takes him for his guest,
“And when with sleep weigh'd down attacks him. Rais'd
“To pierce his bosom, was the sword;—just then
“The wretch, by Ceres, to a lynx was turn'd.
“Then mounts again the youth, and through the air
“Bids him once more the sacred dragons steer.
“Our chosen champion ended here her lays,
“And all the nymphs unanimous, exclaim'd;—
“The Heliconian goddesses have gain'd.
“Vanquish'd, the others rail'd. When she resum'd:—
“Is not your punishment enough deserv'd?
“Foil'd in the contest, must you swell your crime,
“With base revilings? Patient now no more,
“To punish we begin; what anger bids,
“We now perform.—Loud laugh'd the scornful maids,
“Our threatening words despis'd, and strove to speak,
“And clapp'd with outcries menacing, their hands.
“When from their fingers shooting plumes they spy;
“And feathers shade their arms; her sister's face,
“Each sees to harden in an horny beak;
“To beat their bosoms trying with rais'd arms,
“In air suspended, on those arms they move;
“The new-shap'd birds the sylvan tribes increase:
“Magpies, the scandal of the grove. Thus chang'd,
“Their former eloquence they still maintain,
“In hoarse garrulity, and empty noise.”
The Sixth Book.
Trial of skill betwixt Pallas and Arachné. Transformation of Arachné to a spider. Pride of Niobé. Her children slain by Apollo and Diana. Her change to marble. The Lycian peasants changed to frogs. Fate of Marsyas. Pelops. Story of Tereus, Procné, and Philomela. Their change to birds. Boreas and Orithyïa. Birth of Zethes and Calaïs.
THE
Sixth Book
OF THE
METAMORPHOSES
OF
OVID.
Minerva pleas'd attention to the muse,
While thus she spoke afforded; prais'd the song,
And prais'd the just resentment of the maids.
Then to herself;—“the vengeance others take,
“Merely to praise were mean. I too should claim
“Like praise, for like revenge; nor longer bear
“My power contemn'd, by who unpunish'd live.”
And on Arachné, fair Mæönian maid,
She turns her vengeful mind; whose skill she heard
Rivall'd her own in labors of the loom.
No fame her natal town, no fame her sire
On her bestow'd; her skill conferr'd renown.
Idmon of Colophon, her humble sire
Soak'd in the Phocian dye the spongy wool.
Her mother, late deceas'd, from lowest stock,
Had sprung; and wedded with an equal mate.
Yet had she gain'd through all the Lydian towns
For skill a mighty fame. Though born so low,
Though small Hypæpe was her sole abode,
Oft would the nymphs the vine-clad Tmolus leave
To view her wonderous work. Oft would the nymphs
In admiration quit Pactolus' waves.
Nor pleasure only gave the finish'd robe,
When view'd; but while she work'd she gave delight;
Such comely grace in every turn appear'd.
Whether she rounded into balls the wool;
Or with her fingers mollify'd the fleece;
And comb'd it floating light in cloudy waves;
Or her smooth spindle twirl'd with agile thumb;
Or with her needle painted: plain was seen
Her skill from Pallas learnt. This to concede
Unwilling, she ev'n such a tutor scorn'd
Exclaiming:—“come let her the contest try;
“If vanquish'd, let her fix my well-earn'd fate.”
Pallas, an ancient matron's form conceals;
Grey hairs thin strew her temples, and a staff
Supports her tottering limbs; while thus she speaks:—
“Old age though little priz'd, much good attends;
“Experience always grows with lengthen'd years:
“Spurn not my admonition. Great thy fame,
“Midst mortals, for the wonders of the loom.
“Great may it be, but to immortals yield:
“Bold nymph retract, and pardon for thy words,
“With suppliant voice require; Pallas will grant.”
Sternly the damsel views her; quits the threads
Unfinish'd; scarce her hand from force restrains:
And rage in all her features flushing fierce,
Thus to the goddess, well-disguis'd, she speaks:—
“Weak dotard, spent with too great gift of years,
“Curst with too long existence, hence, begone!
“Such admonition to thy daughters give,
“If daughters hast thou; or thy sons have wives:
“Enough for me my inbred wisdom serves.
“Hope not, that ought thy vain advice has sway'd
“My purpose; still my challenge holds the same.
“Why comes your goddess not? why shuns she still
“The trying contest?” Then the goddess,—“Lo!
“She comes,”—and flung her aged form aside,
Minerva's form displaying. Every nymph,
And every dame Mygdonian, lowly bent
In veneration. While Arachné sole
Stood stedfast, unalarm'd; but yet she blush'd.
A sudden flush her angry face deep ting'd,
But sudden faded pale. A ruddy glow
Thus teints the early sky, when first the morn
Arises; quickly from the solar ray
Paling to brightness. On her purpos'd boast
Still stubborn bent, she obstinately courts
Her sure destruction, for the empty hope
Of conquest in the strife so madly urg'd.
No more Jove's maid refuses, gives no more
Her empty admonitions, nor delays
The contest: each her station straight assumes,
Tighten each web; each slender thread prepare.
Firm to the beam the cloth is fix'd; the reed
The warp divides, with pointed shuttle, swift
Gliding between; which quick their fingers throw,
Quick extricate, and with the toothy comb
Firm press'd between the warp, the threads unite.
Both hasten now; their garments round them girt,
Their skilful hands they ply: their toil forgot
In anxious wish for conquest. There appear'd,
The wool of Tyrian dye, and softening teints
Lost imperceptible. So seems the arch
Coloring a spacious portion of the sky;
Struck by the rays of Phœbus, when the showers
Recede, a thousand varying tinges shine;
The soft transition mocks the straining eye,
So like the shades which join, though far distinct
Their distant teints. In slender threads they twist
The pliant gold, and in the web display,
Each as she works, an ancient story fair.
Minerva paints the rock of Mars so fam'd
In Cecrops' city, and the well-known strife
To name the town. Twice six celestials sate
On their high thrones, great Jupiter around
In gravity majestic; every god
Bore his celestial features. Jove appear'd
In royal dignity. The Ocean power
Standing she pictur'd, with his trident huge
Smiting the rugged rock; from the cleft stone
Leap'd forth a steed; and thence the town to name
The privilege he claim'd. Herself she paints
Shielded, and arm'd with keenly-pointed spear.
Helm'd was her head; her breast the Ægis bore.
Struck by her spear, the earth a hoary tree
She shews producing, loaded thick with fruit.
The wondering gods the gift admire; the prize
To her awarded, ends the glorious work.
More, that the daring rival of her art,
Should learn experimental, what reward
Her mad attempt might hope, four parts she adds;
And every part a test of power presents:
Bright the small figures in her colors shine.
This angle Thracian Rhodopé contains,
With Hæmus; both their mortal bodies now,
To frozen mountains chang'd; whose lofty pride
Assum'd the titles of celestial powers.
Another corner held the wretched fate
Felt by Pygmæa's matron; Juno bade
Her vanquish'd rival soar aloft a crane;
And on her people wage continual war.
Antigoné, she paints;—audacious she
With Jove's imperial consort durst contend;
By Jove's imperial queen she flits a bird:
Nor aids her Ilium ought; nor aids her sire,
Laömedon;—upborne on snowy wings,
A stork she rises; loud with chattering bill
She noises. In the sole remaining part,
Was childless Cynaras, in close embrace,
Grasping the temple's steps, his daughters once;
And as he lies extended on the stone,
In marble seems to weep. Around the piece
She spreads the peaceful olive: all complete
Her work is ended with her favorite tree.
Arachné paints Europa, by a bull
Deceiv'd; the god a real bull appears;
And real seem the waves. She, backward turn'd,
Views the receding shore, and seems to shriek
Loud to her lost companions; seems to dread
The dashing waves, and timid shrinks her feet.
She draws Asteria, by the god o'er-power'd,
Cloth'd in an eagle. Leda, fair she lays
Beneath his wings, when he a swan appears.
She adds how Jove beneath a Satyr's shape
Conceal'd, the beauteous child of Nycteus fill'd,
With a twin-offspring. In Amphytrion's form
Alcmena, thou wert press'd. A golden shower
Danaë deceiv'd. A flame Ægina caught.
A shepherd's shape Mnemosyné beguil'd.
And fair Deöis trusts a speckled snake.
Thee, Neptune, too she painted, for the maid
Æolian, to a threatening bull transform'd.
Thou, as Enipeus, didst the Aloïd twins
Beget. Beneath the semblance of a ram,
Theophané was cheated. Ceres mild,
Of grain inventress, with her yellow locks,
In shape a courser felt thy ardent love.
Medusa, mother of the flying steed,
Nymph of the snaky tresses, in a bird
Conceal'd, you forc'd. Melantho in a fish.
To these the damsel, all well-suiting forms
Dispens'd, and all well-suiting scenes attend.
And there Apollo in a herdsman's guise
Wanders. And now he soars a plumy hawk:
Now stalks a lordly lion. As a swain
Macarean Isse, felt his amorous guile,
Erigoné to Bacchus' flame was dup'd
Beneath a well-seem'd grape. Saturn produc'd
The Centaur doubly-shap'd, in form a steed.
Her web's extremes a slender border girt,
Where flowery wreathes, and twining ivy blend.
Not Pallas,—not even envy's rankling soul
Could blame the work. The bright immortal griev'd
To view her rival's merit, angry tore
The picture glowing with celestial crimes.
A boxen shuttle, grasping in her hand,
Thrice on the forehead of th' Idmonian maid
She struck. No more Arachné, hapless bore,
But twisted round her neck with desperate pride
A cord. The deed Minerva pitying saw
And check'd her rash suspension.—“Impious wretch!
“Still live,” she cry'd, “but still suspended hang;
“Curs'd to futurity, for all thy race,
“Thy sons and grandsons, to the latest day
“Alike shall feel the sentence.” Speaking thus,
The juice of Hecat's baleful plant she throws:
Instant besprinkled by the noxious drops,
Her tresses fall; her nose and ears are lost;
Her body shrinks; her head is lessen'd more;
Her slender fingers root within her sides,
Serving as legs; her belly forms the rest;
From whence her thread she still derives and spins:
Her art pursuing in the spider's shape.