The Metamorphoses of Publius Ovidus Naso in English blank verse Vols. I & II

by Ovid

Now through five autumns had the cheerful sun
The whirling year renew'd. When Procné, bland
Her spouse besought.—“If grace within thy sight
“Claim my deserts,—or suffer me to see
“In her own clime my sister, or to ours
“My sister bring: a quick return thou well
“Our sire may'st promise. This high boon obtain'd,
“My sister's presence,—to my sight thou'lt seem,
“A deity in goodness.”—On the main
He bids them launch the vessel; in the port
Cecropian enters, urg'd by oar and sail;
And treads Piræus' shore. Soon as he gain'd
His audience; soon as hand with hand was clasp'd,
His ill-presaging speech he open'd. First
The journey's cause narrating; fond desire
Of Procné; and the promis'd quick return
Of Philomela, should the sire comply.
Lo! Philomela enters, splendid robes
Attire her; still more splendid shine her charms:
Such they describe within the forests rove
Dryad, and Naiäd nymphs; such would they seem
Their shape like hers adorn'd, like hers attir'd.
Instant was Tereus at the sight inflam'd;
So instant would the hoary harvest burn,
The torch apply'd: so burn the wither'd leaves;
Or hoarded hay. Well might her charms inspire
Such love in any;—him his inbred lust
More goaded, more his country's warmth which burns
Intense; he flames from nature, and from clime.
First to corrupt th' attendants he designs,
And faithful nurse; and Philomel' to tempt
With gifts immense,—his kingdom's mighty price.
Or forceful snatch her, and the rape defend,
With all the powers of war. Nought but he dares.
Impell'd by love's unbridled power; his breast
The raging fire contains not. Irksome seems
Delay:—and eager to the anxious wish
Of Procné, turns his converse; her desires
His wishes aiding. Eloquent he spoke;
For love inspir'd him. Often as he press'd
More close than prudent, all his earnest speech,
Procné, he said, dictated. Heavens! how dark
The gloom that blinds the view of human souls.
Tereus for tenderest piety esteem'd,
More as for vice he labors: praise he gains,
for every crime. Now Philomela begs,
His prayer assisting; flings her winning arms
Around Pandion's neck, and suppliant sues
A sight of Procné; for her woe she begs,
But deems she begs delight. Her Tereus views;—
Anticipates his joys; her every kiss,
Her arms around her parent's neck entwin'd,
But goad his passion: fuel fresh they add;
Food for his flame. And when her sire she clasps,
He longs that sire to be. Parent, not more
His impious purpose would the wretch delay!
The king by both their warm beseechings won,
Consents;—she joyful to her father gives
Glad thanks;—and hapless, deems completely blest,
Herself and sister, both most deeply curst;

Now Phœbus' toil nigh spent, his coursers' feet
Sweep'd down the slope of heaven. The royal feast,
And golden goblets, fill'd with Bacchus' gift,
The board bespread. From hence in slumbers soft,
Each sought repose. All but the Thracian king,
Though far remov'd, still burning; all her face,
Her hands and gesture he recals, and paints
At pleasure all her beauties yet unseen:
Feeding his flame, and sleep repelling far.

'Twas morn;—Pandion, pressing warm the hand
Of Tereus, as they parted, while the tears
Gush'd sudden, thus bespeaks his friendly care.
“Dear son, to thee I give her, pious claims
“Compel me: suppliant let me thee adjure
“By faith, by kindred, and by all the gods,
“Thy care paternal, shall protect the maid;
“And the soft solace of my anxious years,
“Speedy restore, for each delay is long.
“Quick, Philomela, quick my child, rejoin
“Thy sire, if filial duty sways thee. Much
“Thy sister's absence pains me.”—Speaking thus
He press'd with kisses soft, the maiden's lips,
And dripping tears with each behest let fall.
Their hands he asks as pledge of faith, and joins
Their hands in his presented; tender begs
His salutations to his daughter dear;
And his young grandson. Scarce the last adieu,
Chok'd with deep sighs, he breathes: his boding mind

Foreseeing future woes.
	Now Philomel'

Now dares he, all those acts atrocious done,
Return to Procné. Eager as he comes,
For Philomel' she asks. False tears and groans
He gives: the hapless nymph he feigns deceas'd:
His tears convince. Now from her shoulders torn,
Her robes with gold bright-glittering, sable vests
Her limbs enfolded. High an empty tomb
She rais'd, and pious obsequies perform'd
To manes pretended: for her sister's fate
She mourn'd, whose fate such mourning ill deserv'd.

Through twice six signs had Phœbus journey'd on,
The year completing. What, alas! remains
For Philomela? Guards prevent her flight.
Of stone erected, high the massive walls
Circle her round. Her lips so mute, refuse
The deed to blazon. Keen the sense of grief
Sharpens the soul:—in misery the mind
Ingenious sparkles. Skillful she extends
The Thracian web, and on the snow-white threads,
In purple letters, weaves the dreadful tale.
Complete, a servant with expressive signs,
The present to the queen she bids to bear.
To Procné was it borne, witless the slave
Of what he carry'd. Savage Tereus' spouse
The web unfolded; read the mournful tale
Her hapless sister told, and wonderous! sate
In silence; grief her rising words repress'd:
Indignant, chok'd, her throat refus'd to breathe,
The angry accents to her plaining tongue.
To weep she waits not, in turmoil confus'd,
Justice and flagrance undistinguished lie;
Her mind sole bent for vengeance on her spouse.

Now was the time Sithonia's matrons wont,
The rites triennial of the jovial god
To tend. Those rites to conscious shade alone
Confided. Rhodopé, the brazen sound
Shrill tinkling, hears by night;—by night the queen
The palace quits, attir'd as Bacchus' rites
Demand; and weapon'd with the Bacchant arms.
A vine her forehead girds; the nimble deer
Clothes with his skin her sides; her shoulder bears
A slender spear. Thus maddening, Procné seeks
The woods in ire terrific, crowded round
By all her followers: rack'd by inward pangs,
The furious rant of Bacchus veils her woes.
The lonely stable seen at length, she howls
Aloud,—“Evoë, ho!”—and bursts the door;
Drags thence her sister;—her thence dragg'd, invests I
In Bacchanalian robes; her face inshrouds
In ivy foliage; and astonish'd leads
The trembling damsel o'er the palace steps.
The horrid dome when Philomela saw,
Perforce she enter'd; through her frame she shook;
The blood her face deserted. Procné sought
A spot retir'd, and from her features flung
The sacred trappings, and her sister's face,
Sorrowing and blushing, to the light unveil'd;
Then ran to clasp her. She the sight not bore;
Her eyes she rais'd not; her dejected brows
Bent to the ground; thus by her sister seen,
Encroacher on her bed. Her hands still spoke,
When oaths she wish'd to utter, and to call
Th' attesting gods, her foul disgrace by force
To prove accomplish'd. Furious, Procné burns,
Nor curbs her ire; her sister's streaming tears
Reproving checks, and cries;—“no period now
“For tears, we ask the sword! But if than sword
“Vengeance more keen thou hop'st for, sister dear,
“Behold me for most horrid deeds prepar'd.
“Shall I with flaming torches blaze on high
“His hall imperial, and the villain king
“Heave in the conflagration? Shall I rend
“As thine his tongue? or from his sockets tear,
“His eye-balls? or what other member maim?
“Or this, or instant send his guilty soul
“Thro' thousand wounds to judgment? What thou speak'st
“Be mighty. I for mightiest acts prepare.
“To fix I hesitate.” As Procné speaks,
Lo! infant Itys to his mother runs;
His sight her mind determines; cruel turn
Her eyes, exclaiming;—“See, how like his sire's
“Appear his features!”—More she spoke not, fixt
Was straight her dread resolve: now fiercer burn'd
Within her smother'd rage;—yet when the boy
Approach'd, and round her neck his infant arms
Threw, and his kisses printed on her lips,
With bland caresses mingled, even the soul
Of Procné melted. Mollify'd her rage,
Tears hard constrain'd flow'd from unwilling eyes.
Soon as the mother's feelings softening seem
To melt in extreme fondness; Procné quits
The sight, and to her sister's face reverts
Again her visage; then on each in turn
Full bent her view, she cries;—“Must one me melt
“With blandish'd soothings? Must the other mute,
“With tongue dismember'd stand? Must he exclaim
“O, mother!—she, O, sister! never more?
“To what a spouse, Pandion's daughter, see
“Art thou, degenerate wife, conjoin'd! Thy sin
“A spouse like Tereus to have us'd too well.”
More she delays not, infant Itys drags,
Swift as the Indian tiger sweeps the fawn
Through shady forests. Then the lofty dome,
For rooms remote well search'd, in one arrives,
Where she the infant pierces; 'twixt the breast
And side the weapon enters, while his hands,
Suppliant, his fate foreseeing, he extends,
And,—“mother! O, my mother!”—loudly cries.
Nor mov'd her countenance fell;—the single wound
Was deadly. Philomela, with her steel
The throat divided, and the quivering limbs
Dissever'd, whilst of animation still
Some glimmering sparks remain'd. Of these, they part
In brazen cauldrons boil: part on the spit
Crackling they turn: with gore the secret rooms
Offensive float. Her unsuspecting spouse
Procné to feast invites; delusive feigns
Her country's customs,—where 'twas given, but one
The husband should be nigh; all menial slaves
Far distant. On his ancestorial seat
High-lifted, Tereus sate, and feasted there:
And in his bowels deep he there entomb'd
Bowels his own. So blind are human souls,—
“Call Itys to the feast,”—he cries. No more
Could Procné veil her savage joy;—full bent
The slaughter to announce, she loud proclaim'd
“Thou seek'st who with thee rests!”—Around he looks.
Wondering where rests he. Philomela rush'd,
Her tresses sprinkled with the ireful blood,
As griev'd he, Itys calling loud, and flung,
With savage fury Itys' gory head
Full in his father's face; nor ever mourn'd
Lost speech so much; her well-earn'd joy to show,
More griev'd lost power. With outcry loud the king
O'er-turn'd the table; from the Stygian vale,
Invok'd the viper'd sisters: hard he strove
To tear his bosom, and from thence disgorge
The dire repast, the half-digested mass
Of Itys' limbs. Now weeping, wild he mourns,
Himself his offspring's tomb. Now fierce pursues
Pandion's daughters with his unsheath'd sword.
From him escaping, on light wings upborne
Th' Athenians seem'd; light wings their limbs upbore!
One sheltering in the woods: protecting roofs
The other seeking; still the murderous deed,
Mark'd on her breast remains; still on her plumes
The teint of blood is seen. Rapid in rage
And hope of vengeance, Tereus too is chang'd,
And flits a bird; a plumy crest he bears,
High on his head: the lengthen'd sword he bore,
A beak enormous grows. A lapwing now

With fierce-arm'd face he flies.
	Untimely sought

The Seventh Book.

Expedition of the Argonauts. Jason obtains the golden fleece, by the assistance of Medea. Æson restored to youth by her magic powers. Murder of Pelias by his daughters. Medea's flight to Corinth. Murder of her rival and infants. Marriage with Ægeus. Adventures of Theseus. War with Minos. Plague in Ægina. Change of ants into Myrmidons. Cephalus and Procris.