Meanwhile Arachne wove the wool:
The web with many a picture shone.
She drew Europa with her bull,
And Leda with her snow-white swan.
Deois with her snake display’d,
And Danäe with her shower of gold;
And many a tale besides the maid,
Had fate permitted, would have told.
But the dread goddess now no more
To check her rising envy strove;
The half-completed task she tore,
And all the pictured crimes of Jove.
The shuttle thrice the air did rend,
Thrice did the heaven-directed blow
Full on Arachne’s head descend,
And made her purple blood to flow.
Arachne’s soul was proud and high:
She drew a cruel cord around
Her tender neck—and, driven to die,
Was from a beam suspended found.
Her death the unpitying goddess stay’d;
“Henceforth, vain fool! for such a crime
For ever shall thou hang,” she said;
“A warning to the end of time.”
In scorn she spoke, and over all
Her rival’s face and form she smear’d
A deadly drug. The head grew small,
And each fair feature disappear’d.
And off the beauteous tresses fell;
The tender waist that was so slim,
In loathly sort was seen to swell,
Shrivell’d and shrank each comely limb.
The spider’s fingers still remain
To spin for ever.—We may vie
With fellow mortals, but ’tis vain
To struggle with the gods on high.
January, 1885. Cowper.