Metamorphoses

Book the Second-2

And now the axle-tree beneath him glow'd:

Lost in the whirling clouds that round him broke,

And white with ashes, hov'ring in the smoke.

He flew where-e'er the horses drove, nor knew

Whither the horses drove, or where he flew.

'Twas then, they say, the swarthy Moor begun

To change his hue, and blacken in the sun.

Then Libya first, of all her moisture drain'd,

Became a barren waste, a wild of sand.

The water-nymphs lament their empty urns,

Boeotia, robb's of silve Dirce, mourns,

Corinth Pyrene's wasted spring bewails,

And Argos grieves whilst Amymone fails.

The floods are drain'd from ev'ry distant coast,

Ev'n Tanais, tho' fix'd in ice, was lost.

Enrag'd Caicus and Lycormas roar,

And Xanthus, fated to be burnt once more.

The fam'd Maeander, that unweary'd strays

Through mazy windings, smoaks in ev'ry maze.

From his lov'd Babylon Euphrates flies;

The big-swoln Ganges and the Danube rise

In thick'ning fumes, and darken half the skies.

In flames Ismenos and the Phasis roul'd,

And Tagus floating in his melted gold.

The swans, that on Cayster often try'd

Their tuneful songs, now sung their last and dy'd.

The frighted Nile ran off, and under ground

Conceal'd his head, nor can it yet be found:

His sev'n divided currents all are dry,

And where they row'ld, sev'n gaping trenches lye:

No more the Rhine or Rhone their course maintain,

Nor Tiber, of his promis'd empire vain.

The ground, deep-cleft, admits the dazling ray,

And startles Pluto with the flash of day.

The seas shrink in, and to the sight disclose

Wide n***d plains, where once their billows rose;

Their rocks are all discover'd, and increase

The number of the scatter'd Cyclades.

The fish in sholes about the bottom creep,

Nor longer dares the crooked dolphin leap

Gasping for breath, th' unshapen Phocae die,

And on the boiling wave extended lye.

Nereus, and Doris with her virgin train,

Seek out the last recesses of the main;

Beneath unfathomable depths they faint,

And secret in their gloomy caverns pant.

Stern Neptune thrice above the waves upheld

His face, and thrice was by the flames repell'd.

The Earth at length, on ev'ry side embrac'd

With scalding seas that floated round her waste,

When now she felt the springs and rivers come,

And crowd within the hollow of her womb,

Up-lifted to the Heav'ns her blasted head,

And clapt her hand upon her brows, and said

(But first, impatient of the sultry heat,

Sunk deeper down, and sought a cooler seat):

"If you, great king of Gods, my death approve,

And I deserve it, let me die by Jove;

If I must perish by the force of fire,

Let me transfix'd with thunder-bolts expire.

See, whilst I speak, my breath the vapours choak

(For now her face lay wrapt in clouds of smoak),

See my singe'd hair, behold my faded eye,

And wither'd face, where heaps of cinders lye!

And does the plow for this my body tear?

This the reward for all the fruits I bear,

Tortur'd with rakes, and harrass'd all the year?

That herbs for cattle daily I renew,

And food for Man, and frankincense for you?

But grant me guilty; what has Neptune done?

Why are his waters boiling in the sun?

The wavy empire, which by lot was giv'n,

Why does it waste, and further shrink from Heav'n?

If I nor he your pity can provoke,

See your own Heav'ns, the Heav'ns begin to smoke!

Shou'd once the sparkles catch those bright abodes,

Destruction seizes on the Heav'ns and Gods;

Atlas becomes unequal to his freight,

And almost faints beneath the glowing weight.

If Heav'n, and Earth, and sea, together burn,

All must again into their chaos turn.

Apply some speedy cure, prevent our fate,

And succour Nature, ere it be too late."

She cea'sd, for choak'd with vapours round her spread,

Down to the deepest shades she sunk her head.

Jove call'd to witness ev'ry Pow'r above,

And ev'n the God, whose son the chariot drove,

That what he acts he is compell'd to do,

Or universal ruin must ensue.

Strait he ascends the high aetherial throne,

From whence he us'd to dart his thunder down,

From whence his show'rs and storms he us'd to pour,

But now cou'd meet with neither storm nor show'r.

Then, aiming at the youth, with lifted hand,

Full at his head he hurl'd the forky brand,

In dreadful thund'rings. Thus th' almighty sire

Suppress'd the raging of the fires with fire.

At once from life and from the chariot driv'n,

Th' ambitious boy fell thunder-struck from Heav'n.

The horses started with a sudden bound,

And flung the reins and chariot to the ground:

The studded harness from their necks they broke,

Here fell a wheel, and here a silver spoke,

Here were the beam and axle torn away;

And, scatter'd o'er the Earth, the shining fragments lay.

The breathless Phaeton, with flaming hair,

Shot from the chariot, like a falling star,

That in a summer's ev'ning from the top

Of Heav'n drops down, or seems at least to drop;

'Till on the Po his blasted corps was hurl'd,

Far from his country, in the western world.

Phaeton's Sisters transform'd into Trees

The Latian nymphs came round him, and, amaz'd,

On the dead youth, transfix'd with thunder, gaz'd;

And, whilst yet smoaking from the bolt he lay,

His shatter'd body to a tomb convey,

And o'er the tomb an epitaph devise:

"Here he, who drove the sun's bright chariot, lies;

His father's fiery steeds he cou'd not guide,

But in the glorious enterprize he dy'd."

Apollo hid his face, and pin'd for grief,

And, if the story may deserve belief,

The space of one whole day is said to run,

From morn to wonted ev'n, without a sun:

The burning ruins, with a fainter ray,

Supply the sun, and counterfeit a day,

A day, that still did Nature's face disclose:

This comfort from the mighty mischief rose.

But Clymene, enrag'd with grief, laments,

And as her grief inspires, her passion vents:

Wild for her son, and frantick in her woes,

With hair dishevel'd round the world she goes,

To seek where-e'er his body might be cast;

'Till, on the borders of the Po, at last

The name inscrib'd on the new tomb appears.

The dear dear name she bathes in flowing tears,

Hangs o'er the tomb, unable to depart,

And hugs the marble to her throbbing heart.

Her daughters too lament, and sigh, and mourn

(A fruitless tribute to their brother's urn),

And beat their n***d bosoms, and complain,

And call aloud for Phaeton in vain:

All the long night their mournful watch they keep,

And all the day stand round the tomb, and weep.

Four times, revolving, the full moon return'd;

So long the mother and the daughters mourn'd:

When now the eldest, Phaethusa, strove

To rest her weary limbs, but could not move;

Lampetia wou'd have help'd her, but she found

Her self with-held, and rooted to the ground:

A third in wild affliction, as she grieves,

Wou'd rend her hair, but fills her hands with leaves;

One sees her thighs transform'd, another views

Her arms shot out, and branching into boughs.

And now their legs, and breasts, and bodies stood

Crusted with bark, and hard'ning into wood;

But still above were female heads display'd,

And mouths, that call'd the mother to their aid.

What cou'd, alas! the weeping mother do?

From this to that with eager haste she flew,

And kiss'd her sprouting daughters as they grew.

She tears the bark that to each body cleaves,

And from their verdant fingers strips the leaves:

The blood came trickling, where she tore away

The leaves and bark: the maids were heard to say,

"Forbear, mistaken parent, oh! forbear;

A wounded daughter in each tree you tear;

Farewell for ever." Here the bark encreas'd,

Clos'd on their faces, and their words suppress'd.

The new-made trees in tears of amber run,

Which, harden'd into value by the sun,

Distill for ever on the streams below:

The limpid streams their radiant treasure show,

Mixt in the sand; whence the rich drops convey'd

Shine in the dress of the bright Latian maid.

The Transformation of Cycnus into a Swan

Cycnus beheld the nymphs transform'd, ally'd

To their dead brother on the mortal side,

In friendship and affection nearer bound;

He left the cities and the realms he own'd,

Thro' pathless fields and lonely shores to range,

And woods made thicker by the sisters' change.

Whilst here, within the dismal gloom, alone,

The melancholy monarch made his moan,

His voice was lessen'd, as he try'd to speak,

And issu'd through a long-extended neck;

His hair transforms to down, his fingers meet

In skinny films, and shape his oary feet;

From both his sides the wings and feathers break;

And from his mouth proceeds a blunted beak:

All Cycnus now into a Swan was turn'd,

Who, still remembring how his kinsman burn'd,

To solitary pools and lakes retires,

And loves the waters as oppos'd to fires.

Mean-while Apollo in a gloomy shade

(The native lustre of his brows decay'd)

Indulging sorrow, sickens at the sight

Of his own sun-shine, and abhors the light;

The hidden griefs, that in his bosom rise,

Sadden his looks and over-cast his eyes,

As when some dusky orb obstructs his ray,

And sullies in a dim eclipse the day.

Now secretly with inward griefs he pin'd,

Now warm resentments to his griefs he joyn'd,

And now renounc'd his office to mankind.

"Ere since the birth of time," said he, "I've born

A long ungrateful toil, without return;

Let now some other manage, if he dare,

The fiery steeds, and mount the burning carr;

Or, if none else, let Jove his fortune try,

And learn to lay his murd'ring thunder by;

Then will he own, perhaps, but own too late,

My son deserv'd not so severe a fate."

The Gods stand round him, as he mourns, and pray

He would resume the conduct of the day,

Nor let the world be lost in endless night:

Jove too himself descending from his height,

Excuses what had happen'd, and intreats,

Majestically mixing pray'rs and threats.

Prevail'd upon at length, again he took

The harness'd steeds, that still with horror shook,

And plies 'em with the lash, and whips 'em on,

And, as he whips, upbraids 'em with his son.

The Story of Calisto

The day was settled in its course; and Jove

Walk'd the wide circuit of the Heavens above,

To search if any cracks or flaws were made;

But all was safe: the Earth he then survey'd,

And cast an eye on ev'ry diff'rent coast,

And ev'ry land; but on Arcadia most.

Her fields he cloath'd, and chear'd her blasted face

With running fountains, and with springing grass.

No tracks of Heav'n's destructive fire remain,

The fields and woods revive, and Nature smiles again.

But as the God walk'd to and fro the Earth,

And rais'd the plants, and gave the spring its birth,

By chance a fair Arcadian nymph he view'd,

And felt the lovely charmer in his blood.

The nymph nor spun, nor dress'd with artful pride,

Her vest was gather'd up, her hair was ty'd;

Now in her hand a slender spear she bore,

Now a light quiver on her shoulders wore;

To chaste Diana from her youth inclin'd,

The sprightly warriors of the wood she joyn'd.

Diana too the gentle huntress lov'd,

Nor was there one of all the nymphs that rov'd

O'er Maenalus, amid the maiden throng,

More favour'd once; but favour lasts not long.

The sun now shone in all its strength, and drove

The heated virgin panting to a grove;

The grove around a grateful shadow cast:

She dropt her arrows, and her bow unbrac'd;

She flung her self on the cool grassy bed;

And on the painted quiver rais'd her head,

Jove saw the charming huntress unprepar'd,

Stretch'd on the verdant turf, without a guard.

"Here I am safe," he cries, "from Juno's eye;

Or shou'd my jealous queen the theft descry,

Yet wou'd I venture on a theft like this,

And stand her rage for such, for such a bliss!"

Diana's shape and habit strait he took,

Soften'd his brows, and smooth'd his awful look,

And mildly in a female accent spoke.

"How fares my girl? How went the morning chase?"

To whom the virgin, starting from the grass,

"All hail, bright deity, whom I prefer

To Jove himself, tho' Jove himself were here."

The God was nearer than she thought, and heard

Well-pleas'd himself before himself preferr'd.

He then salutes her with a warm embrace;

And, e're she half had told the morning chase,

With love enflam'd, and eager on his bliss,

Smother'd her words, and stop'd her with a kiss;

His kisses with unwonted ardour glow'd,

Nor cou'd Diana's shape conceal the God.

The virgin did whate'er a virgin cou'd

(Sure Juno must have pardon'd, had she view'd);

With all her might against his force she strove;

But how can mortal maids contend with Jove?