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Home , Abaris (Caucasian), Abaris (Greek myth), Aganippe, Ampyx, Chromis (mythology), Daulis (mythology)

, Joseph D. Reed, Rolfe Humphries

Published by Indiana University Press

Ovid, et al. Metamorphoses: The New, Annotated Edition. Indiana University Press, 2018. Project MUSE. muse.jhu.edu/book/58757. https://muse.jhu.edu/.

For additional information about this book https://muse.jhu.edu/book/58757

[ Access provided at 20 May 2021 05:17 GMT from University of Washington @ Seattle ] book FIve

The Fighting of * So Perseus told his story, and the halls Buzzed loud, not with the cheery noise that rings From floor to rafter at a wedding-party. No; this meant trouble. It was like the riot When sudden squalls lash peaceful waves to surges. was the reckless one to start it, That warfare, brandishing his spear of ash With sharp bronze point. “Look at me! Here I am,” He cried, “Avenger of my stolen bride! No wings will save you from me, and no god Turned into lying gold.”* He poised the spear, As Cepheus shouted: “Are you crazy, brother? What are you doing? Is this our gratitude, This our repayment for a maiden saved? If truth is what you want, it was not Perseus Who took her from you, but the Whose power is terrible, it was hornèd Ammon, It was that horrible monster from the ocean Who had to feed on my own flesh and blood, And that was when you really lost her, brother;

107 lines 20–47 She would have died—can your heart be so cruel To wish it so, to heal its grief by causing Grief in my heart? It was not enough, I take it, For you to see her bound and never help her, Never so much as lift a little finger, And you her uncle and her promised husband! So now you grieve that someone else did save her, You covet his reward, a prize so precious, It seems, you could not force yourself to take it From the rocks where it was bound. Let him alone! He took her from the rocks—I am not childless, Now, nor in my old age. He has earned his prize, I keep my word. You have this much of comfort, The choice was not between two men, but rather Between one man and death.” There was no answer, As Phineus looked in doubt from one to the other Wondering which to let alone, and waited, And then, with all the strength that anger gave him, Let fly the spear at Perseus, but the weapon Missed, piercing through the bench’s coverings, And Perseus, all warrior, leaped down And flung it back again, and would have killed him, But Phineus cringed and hid behind the altar And so found safety, but the spear-point found Another victim; it drove through Rhoetus’ forehead, Somebody pulled it loose, and Rhoetus groveled, Spattering blood across the ground and tables. Nothing could stop them now. They all hurled weapons, And some said Cepheus ought to die, with Perseus, But Cepheus was gone, far from the palace, Calling on Justice, Faith, and all the gods Who care for host and guest alike, to witness That he had tried to stop it, all this madness. And then Minerva came, the warrior-goddess, To give her brother shield and reassurance.

108 • book FIve lines 47–80

There was a youngster* there, Athis, from India, Whose mother was a river-, Limnaee, And he was beautiful, with beauty doubled By the rich robes he wore, the purple mantle With fringe of gold, and a golden chain adorning His throat, and a golden circlet holding in His hair, perfumed with myrrh. At sixteen years He threw the javelin well, and bent the bow With even greater skill, and would have bent it Once more, but Perseus, snatching from the altar A smoldering brand, used it for club and battered His face to splintered bones. And this was seen By Lycabas, who loved him, very dearly, As one boy loves another, and who wept For Athis, gasping out his life, his features Fouled in his lifeblood, and he seized the bow Which Athis once had bent. “You have me to fight,” He cried, “It will not be long, the cheap rejoicing In having killed this boy: all that you gain Is hate, not praise!” As the last words were spoken, The arrow was on its way, but missed, and fastened harmless In Perseus’ robe, and Perseus turned, and swung The scimitar that once had slain the And now slew Lycabas, who, in the darkness That swam before his eyes, looked once around For Athis, and once more lay down beside him And took this comfort to the world of shadows That in their death the two were not divided.

Phorbas, Metion’s son, and Amphimedon, Eager to join the battle, slipped and stumbled In the red blood, and, rising, took the sword, One in the ribs, one in the throat. Another, Erytus, son of Actor, had an axe, And Perseus used no scimitar against him,

Perseus • 109 lines 81–112 But lifted a great mixing-bowl, and heaved it Full in his face, and saw the red blood spouting, The head beating the floor in death’s convulsion. Then Perseus struck down others, Polydaemon, Lycetus, , Helices, Phlegyas, , and stood on heaps of dying victims. Phineus dared not close, but flung the javelin, And missed, and by some error hit another, One , who, it seemed, had vainly striven To fight on neither side. Now he was angry, Challenging Phineus, “Since you force me to it, Accept the enemy you have created And match me, blow for blow!” He drew the javelin From his own body, and he would have flung it, But found his wound too deep, and went down lifeless. killed Hodites; Prothoenor Went down from ’ sword, and Hypseus fell Before Lyncides. There was one old man, by name, who feared the gods And cared for justice. Much too old for fighting, He tried to win by talking, and came forward Cursing the evil brawlers; his old hands Clung to the altars, and struck him there, Beheading him, and the head fell on the altar, Still upright, and the tongue kept up its cursing, Thickened, and stilled, and the breath failed over the fires. Ammon and Broteas, brothers, undefeated In any boxing-bout, found Phineus’ sword Too strong for them to parry, and the headdress, All white around the temples of Ampycus,* The minister of Ceres, was no helmet. And poor Lampetides—he had been summoned To no such revels, only to play the lute,

110 • book FIve lines 113–154 To grace the feast with song, and so he stood there Holding the ivory quill, surely no fighter, And Pettalus mocked him: “Sing that song in Hell,* The rest of it, at least!” and pierced his temple, And as he fell, the dying fingers struggled, To play once more, and made only a discord. Lycormas, mad at what he saw, took vengeance On Pettalus, broke his neck with a bar wrenched loose From the iron door, as butcher kills a bullock. Pelates tried to rip another bar loose, And found his hand pierced by a spear and pinned Fast to the wood, and * ran him through, But could not make him fall, and so he hung there, Nailed by one hand. was slain, (He was one of Pereus’ men) and Dorylas, Who was very rich, and the end of all his fortune Was a spear jabbed through the groin; that spot is fatal. His killer, Halcyoneus, said something, By way of taunt, about his new-found acres, And Perseus flung the spear, snatched from the wound, Still warm, still red; it drove through nose, through neck, Hung balanced there. And, with good luck still on him, Perseus slaughtered and Clanis, Who had one mother at their birth, but, dying, Had different wounds. Celadon fell, and Astreus; Aethion, who, men said, foretold the future Did not foresee his own; down went Thoactes, Cepelus’ armor-bearer, and Agyrtes The parricide. And Perseus, faint and weary, Found them all coming at him: honor, service, Were nothing to them; only three were loyal, Father-to-be, and bride-to-be, and mother, And all they did was fill the hall with shrieking, And that was hardly heard in the clash of arms,

Perseus • 111 lines 154–189 The groan of dying men, the while Bellona Pollutes the house with blood, renews the struggle. And now he stands alone; a thousand follow, With Phineus, against him, and spears flying Like slanting winter sleet. At his back he has A great stone column, and he stands there, facing All who come madly on. Ethemon, Molpeus, Stalk him from right and left, and as a tiger, Half-starved, hears two herds lowing in two valleys, And knows not which to rush, but for rushing, So Perseus, hesitant between left and right, Gets Molpeus with a leg-wound, does not bother When he goes limping off. Ethemon gives him No time to think, comes rushing on; the neck, He thinks, is the right target, but his sword Drives with more strength than aim, and the stone column Splinters the point, and breaks the blade, and turns it Into its master’s throat, a wound not deep Enough for one to die of, but another Follows, from Perseus’ scimitar, as Ethemon Stands reaching out his empty hands, in vain. And Perseus knew his strength at last would fail Before those endless numbers. “Since you ask it,” He cried, “I call my enemy to help me. If any friend is here”—he raised it high, The Gorgon’s head—“If any friends are here, Then turn away your faces!” Thescelus answered: “Seek some one else to frighten with your magic!” And raised his javelin, and became a statue Poised for a javelin-throw. The next was , Who thrust a sword, and felt the right hand stiffen, The wrist grow rigid. Nileus, a liar, Who said his father was the famous river* Whose seven mouths, part silver and part gold,

112 • book FIve lines 189–216 He wore as shield’s device, called: “See, O Perseus, The fountain of my blood, and take this comfort Down to the silent shades—a hero killed you!” The last words broke, half spoken; if you saw him So, open-mouthed, you might perhaps have wondered Why the lips made no sound, for all they tried to. They were cowards both, thought , and he said so, Said there was nothing in this Gorgon-magic, Urged them to join his charge, and he was charging, Or would have charged, but the floor seemed to hold him, And there he stood, a flinty man, unmoving, A monument in armor. They deserved it, All three, but there was one, a soldier fighting On Perseus’ side, Aconteus, whose bad luck It was to see the Gorgon, and what happened Afflicted friend, for once, and not a foeman. Astyages, mistaking rock for flesh, For living flesh, struck at him, and the sword Rang with a sound not made on flesh or armor, And as it rang, Astyages, in wonder, Was wondering marble. It would take too long To tell the names of all of those who perished; Two hundred men survived; at least as many Looked at the Gorgon and were turned to stone. And Phineus, now, repents this evil warfare, But what is there to do? He sees them all, All images, posing, and he knows each one By name, and calls each one by name, imploring Each one for help: seeing is not believing, He touches the nearest bodies, and he finds them All marble, all. He turns his face away, Holds out his hands, cautiously, sidewise, pleading: “You win, O Perseus! Take away that monster

Perseus • 113 lines 217–249 That face that makes men stone, whoever she is, , or—no matter: take her away! No hate for you, no lust for power drove me Into this fight; it was my bride I fought for. Your claim was better in merit, mine in time. I yield, and gladly, and now I ask for nothing Except my life: let all the rest be yours!” And all the time he spoke, he dared not look At the man he spoke to. Perseus made answer: “Dismiss your fear, great coward: I can give you A great memorial; not by the sword Are you to die; you shall endure for ages, Be seen for ages, in your brother’s household, A comfort for my wife, her promised husband, His very image.” And he swung the head So Phineus had to see it; as he struggled To turn his eyes, his neck grew hard, his tears Were changed to marble, and in marble still The suppliant look, the pleading hands, the pose, The cringe—all these were caught and fixed forever.

So Perseus, victor, and his bride, went home To his ancestral city, and there made war On Proetus, who had driven out his brother* By force of arms; but neither force of arms Nor fortress could resist the awful power Of the snake-headed monster. Polydectes,* The king of little Seriphos, stood hard In hate and unrelenting, unjust anger, Against the hero; neither manliness Nor trials had power to move him, and, he added, It was all a lie, this fiction of Medusa. “So, we had better prove it!” Perseus cried, Warning his friends to look the other way, And one more enemy was turned to stone.

114 • book FIve lines 250–282

Minerva Visits the Minerva, all this while, had been companion To her brother, of that golden shower begotten. But now, veiled in a hollow cloud she left The little island, passed by Gyaros, By Cynthus, and went over the sea to Thebes, To Helicon, where the Muses lived, and landing On the sacred mountain, spoke to her learned sisters: “I have heard of a new fountain, sprung, they tell me Under the hard hoof of the wingèd horse* Medusa used to own. I have come to see it, This miracle; the birth of the horse I witnessed, Born from his mother’s blood.” Urania answered:* “For any cause, O goddess, you are welcome, And the tale is really true: did, Indeed, produce our fountain.” She led the goddess To the sacred water, and Minerva stood there, Admiring long, and looked at woods and grottoes And lawns, bejeweled with unnumbered flowers, And said that Memory’s daughters must be happy In both their home and calling. One of them answered: “It is true, indeed, Minerva; we have often Wished you were one of us, though greater tasks Call to your greater merit. We are happy, Or would be, were we only safe. So far, It seems, no outrage ever is forbidden, Our maiden souls are frightened; we remember, Too well, the look of that fierce king Pyreneus. His Thracian soldiery had captured , He ruled that land, unfairly won, and saw us, Once, on our way to the temple on Parnassus. He knew us, and he gave us false obeisance: ‘Daughters of Memory, linger here, be welcome Under my roof, take shelter from the rain-clouds’ (And that was true, a heavy rain was falling)

Minerva and the Muses • 115 lines 282–312 ‘The gods have entered humbler homes.’ His words, Or the storm, made us bow our heads, agreeing, And we came in, and presently the rain Stopped falling, and the wind came clear from the north, And the dark clouds fled from the brighter sky. We would have gone, but he shut the doors against us, Offered us violence, but we put on Our wings, and fled him. But he followed after, Far as he could, to the highest battlement, And farther than he could, poised there, and crying, ‘Wherever you go, I follow,’ and sprang forward, Dove headlong to his death, with broken bones And ground dyed red with blood.” A whir of wings Sounded in air, and a voice of greeting came From the high boughs. Jove’s daughter looked aloft To see whence came that sound, so surely speech Some human must have spoken. No! A bird! More birds than one, nine magpies on the branches, Complaining of their fate, the imitators Of any kind of sound. She wondered at them, And heard their story from the other goddess: “They have not been birds for long; they challenged us, And lost, when they were women. Their father, Pierus, Was a rich lord in Pella, and their mother, Euippe, was Paeonian. She gave birth Nine times, nine times she called on great Lucina, And her nine daughters, swollen, it seems, also With pride of numbers, the stupid things, went swarming All up and down Haemonia and Achaia, Challenging us to song: ‘Quit fooling people,’ They said, ‘Quit fooling silly ignorant people With your pretence of music! Hear our challenge! We are as many as you are, and our voices, Our skill at least as great. If you are beaten, Give us Medusa’s spring, and :*

116 • book FIve lines 313–340 Or, if we lose, we will cede you all Emathia From plains to snow-line; the shall be the judges.’ If it was shameful to accept their challenge, It would have been more shameful to ignore it. And so the nymphs were sworn, by their own rivers, Ascending to their benches, the living rock. Whoever it was who first proposed the singing Never so much as bothered to draw lots, Giving herself first chance; a song of battles* She sang, that raged between the gods and . The giants got none the worst of it, the gods, As she went warbling on, got none the better: Typhoeus, out of Hell, she chanted, scared them Out of their wits, and made them run till, weary, They found a refuge in the land of Egypt, Sheltered by seven-mouthed Nile. And even there Typhoeus chased them, and they hid themselves In all sorts of disguises: Jove was ram, And that is why Ammon wears horns in Libya Up to this very day; hid In crow-skin, and his sister was a cat, Bacchus a goat, Juno a snow-white heifer, Venus a fish, a flamingo. That was the gist of it, with voice and harp Attuned together, if you could call it tuneful, And our turn came at last. Perhaps, dear goddess, We should postpone the story; you may be busy, Have something better to do?” “No fear, go on!” Minerva reassured her, and the Muse Went on, in the soft shadow of the woodland: “One sang for all of us, Calliope, Our sister, with her flowing hair arrayed In ivy wreaths. She tried the plaintive chords, Running her thumb across the strings, then, sweeping The music soft and low, she sang this song, The praise of Ceres:*

Minerva and the Muses • 117 lines 341–371 ‘Ceres was the first* To part the clay with plowshare; Ceres first Gave men the gift of corn and the good harvest; She first gave laws. We owe all things to Ceres, To her be given the song. Would I were worthy To sing of her, for surely she is worthy Of song, of hymn. ‘Typhoeus, you remember, Had dared storm Heaven, and fell, and on his body Was piled, with all its weight, the mighty island We know as . To be sure, he struggled, Tried to work free, but his right hand was pinioned, Pelorus held it down; his left Pachynus, And Lilybaeum crushed his legs, and Etna Sat on his head.* Supine beneath this mountain He spouts up ashes, vomits flame, he struggles To push off all earth’s weight, to roll the cities, The mountains, from his body: then we have Earthquakes and tremors, and the Dead Land’s king, The monarch of the silent, shudders, fearing Lest earth gape open and the daylight enter, Fearful to trembling ghosts. Dreading such evil, He left the lower realm, the gloomy kingdom, Rose, in his chariot drawn by the black horses, Surveyed the land of Sicily, and found it Secure on its foundations, and took comfort. And Venus saw him, from the sacred mountain Where she was seated with her winged boy, The young god Cupid. With her kiss went orders: “Take your all-conquering weapons, O my son, My arms, my hands,* and source of all my power, And let the speeding arrows find the heart Of the god on whom the final lot bestowed The world below the world. You rule the others, Even great Jove, you rule the great sea-gods And their great monarch. Why should Hell alone

118 • book FIve lines 371–406 Hold out against us? Let our empire spread! A third of the universe, it seems, denies us, And even in Heaven, for our tolerance, We are despised: Minerva and Diana Are in revolt against me; Ceres’ daughter Will remain virgin, if we let her have Her present affectations.* For both our sakes, Join the young goddess with her loving uncle.” And Cupid, searching through his quiver, found The sharpest shaft of all, and sent it flying From the bow bent at his knee, and the barb struck deep In ’s heart. ‘Not far from Henna’s walls* There is a pool called Pergus, whose deep water Hears the swans singing, even more than Cayster.* A wood surrounds the pool, and the green leaves Keep off the sunlight, and the ground is cool, And the ground is moist, with lovely flowers growing, And the season is always spring; and in this grove Proserpina was playing, gathering flowers, Violets, or white lilies, and so many The basket would not hold them all, but still She was so eager—the other girls must never Beat her at picking blossoms! So, in one moment, Or almost one, she was seen, and loved, and taken In Pluto’s rush of love. She called her mother, Her comrades, but more often for her mother. Where he had torn the garment from her shoulder, The loosened flowers fell, and she, poor darling, In simple innocence, grieved as much for them As for her other loss. Her ravager Drove the car fiercely on, shook up the horses, Calling each one by name, the reins, dark-dyed, Sawing the necks and manes. Through the deep lakes, Through the Palician pools,* that reeked with sulphur, That boiled where earth was cracked, beyond the city

Minerva and the Muses • 119 lines 407–438 Corinthian men once built between two harbors, One large, one small, they rode. ‘Between Cyane And Arethusa lies a bay, its Held in the land’s embrace. And here Cyane, Who gave the pool its name, the one most famous Of all Sicilian nymphs, rose from the ripples That circled at her waist. She knew the goddess, Daughter of Ceres, and she cried aloud: “No farther shall you go! Ceres shall have No son against her will; Proserpina Should have been asked, not taken.* If I may Compare small acts with great ones, Anapis loved me,* And I became his bride, but at least he asked me, He did not force or frighten me into wedlock.” She flung her arms widespread, as if her slimness Could block that onrush, but the son of Saturn, Burning with terrible anger, whipped the horses, Whirled, with his strong right arm, the royal sceptre, Smote the pool open to its very depths, And the earth opened, and the chariot plunged Through the new crater down to Hell. ‘Cyane Grieved for both violations, girl and fountain, And in her silent spirit kept the wound Incurable, and, all in tears, she melted, Dissolving, queen no longer, of those waters. Her limbs were seen to soften, and her bones Became more flexible, and the nails’ hardness Was gone: the slenderest parts went first, the hair, The fingers, legs, and feet: it is no great distance From slimness to cool water. Back and shoulders, The breasts, the sides, were watery streams, and water Went through her veins, not blood, till there was nothing For anyone to hold. ‘And Ceres, meantime,

120 • book FIve lines 439–471 Was looking for her daughter, in every land, On every sea. Neither Aurora, rising With dew in her hair, nor Lucifer at evening, Had ever seen her rest. She had two torches, Kindled in Etna’s fires, and went, unresting, Through all the frosty dark; when kindly day Had dimmed the stars, from sunset on till daylight She sought her daughter; tired from the work, and thirsty, For she had not taken even a sip of water, She saw a cottage, thatched with straw, and knocked At the low door. In answer, an old woman Came, saw the goddess, and when asked for water, Gave her a drink, sweetened with barley kernels,* And while the goddess drank, a hard-faced youngster, A loutish country boy, stood by and watched her, And mocked her for her greediness. The goddess, Angry, forgot her drink, and threw it at him, Full in his face, the barley grains and all, And his face was spotted, then, and his arms were legs, And he grew a tail, and shrank, a harmless creature, Like a lizard, only smaller. The old woman Wondered, and wept, and tried in vain to touch him, But he was gone through a chink in the rocks. His name Suits his performance, Stellio, The Spot-marked; Some people call him Newt. ‘It would take too long To tell what lands the goddess wandered over, What seas she crossed, and all in disappointment. So she came back to Sicily, and searching still Came to Cyane. Were the nymph not water, She would have told her everything; she tried to, But had no lips, no mouth, no tongue to speak with, Still, she had evidence to give:* the girdle Proserpina wore, lay floating on the surface Where it had fallen when they went down. And Ceres Saw it, and only then appeared to fathom

Minerva and the Muses • 121 lines 472–505 Her daughters fate, and beat her breast in sorrow, And tore her hair. Where is she? She does not know, Still does not know, and calls the lands ungrateful, Unworthy of her gifts; above all others Sicily is to blame, for there she found The evidence of her loss. She cursed the land, Breaking the ploughs that turned the earth, and killing Cattle and men in anger, making fields Lie sterile, blighting seed and crop: the land Had a good name, but you would never know it To see it now, corn withering in the blade, Excessive sun, excessive rain, and stars And winds both evil, and the greedy birds Eating the planted seeds, thistle and darnel And crab-grass taking over. ‘Then Arethusa, Daughter of , from the Elean pool She lived in, rose, pushed back the dripping hair That fell across her forehead, saying: “O mother Of the girl sought over the whole wide world, O mother Of fruit and harvest, cease the endless labor. Do not be angry at the loyal earth. It has kept the faith, it is innocent, it opened Unwillingly to that ravishment. I plead Not for a country of my home, a stranger From Pisa and from , alien here. But I love this country more than all the others, Cherish my dwelling here. Be merciful, Spare this dear land. Some other time, When you are happier, I can tell my story, How I came here, through such a waste of waters. Now this much only: the solid earth had opened A way for me, I went through deepest darkness, Rose here at last, and saw the stars again, But in my voyage underground, I saw Proserpina, with these very eyes I saw her,

122 • book FIve lines 506–532 Sorrowful, to be sure, and still half-frightened, And still a queen, the greatest of the world Of darkness, and an empress, the proud consort Of the proud ruler of the world of darkness.” Ceres was like a woman turned to stone, And then a woman raving, but her frenzy Dwindled, at last, to anguish, and she drove Her chariot to Heaven; with clouded gaze, With hair all streaming down, she stood before The lord of Heaven, pleading*: “I have come, Great Jove, to speak as suppliant for a daughter, Your blood and mine. Her mother holds no favor, It may be, in your sight; even so, a father Should find the daughter dear, however worthless The mother may be. I have sought her long, and found her At last, if you can call it finding To lose more surely, if you call it finding To know her dwelling-place. She has been taken By force: that I shall bear, because I have to, But let him bring her back! Your daughter, surely, Even if mine no longer, does not merit A robber for a husband.” And Jove answered: “She is our daughter truly, yours and mine, A common bond, a common care. But let us Be willing to face the facts: this was not done Through wickedness, but love. He will not shame us, This brother of mine, as son-in-law, if only You can be gracious. It is something, surely, To be Jove’s brother, even if we granted That he was nothing else, but he is something, Less than me only in the luck of drawing Lots for the universe. Still, if you must Break up this marriage, let Proserpina come To the upper world again, on one condition: She must, in the world below, have eaten nothing, Tasted no food—so have the Fates enacted.”

Minerva and the Muses • 123 lines 533–567 And Ceres, as he ended, was determined To have her daughter back, but the Fates forbade it. She had been hungry, wandering in the gardens, Poor simple child, and plucked from the leaning bough A pomegranate, the crimson fruit, and peeled it, With the inside coating of the pale rind showing, And eaten seven of the seeds, and no one Saw this but Ascalaphus, son of Orphne, Dark bride of .* He saw, he tattled, So she could not return, and she, in anger, Turned him into a bird, of evil omen, Dashing hell-water in his face, to give him A beak, and feathers, and big round eyes, and wings All sulphur-colored, a head enlarged, and talons, And a dull way of moving, so he barely Shudders his feathers, sluggish, a bad omen To mortals, the foul screech-owl. ‘He deserved it For being such a tattle-tale. What reason Was there to give ’ daughters feathers And claws, but let them keep the faces of girls? Was it because they were with her when she gathered Those fatal flowers? They were her dear companions, The Sirens,* skilled in singing, and they sought her Through all the lands in vain, and came to the ocean And prayed that they might seek her there, be given Wings for their quest, and hover over the waters, And the gods were kind, and gave them golden plumage, But let them keep the lovely singing voices, So dear to the ears of men, the human features, The human voice, the dower of song forever.

But Jupiter, holding the balance even Between the husband and the grieving mother, Divides the year in half, so that the goddess May be with both and neither; and her bearing

124 • book FIve lines 568–600 Is changed, her sorrow alternates with sunlight, The cloud and shadow vanishing. ‘And Ceres, Secure and happy in her daughters presence, Went back to Arethusa* for the story Of why she fled, how she became a fountain. The waters all fell silent as their goddess Rose from the deep of the pool, and used her hands To wring her green hair dry, and told the story Of the Elean river’s love. ‘“I was a nymph,” She said, “Achaian-born, and none more eager Than I in hunting, and I had some courage, And had a name for beauty, though I never Went asking for it, and when people praised me I took no pleasure in it—other girls Like to be praised for beauty; I was simple, I did not think it right to be attractive, And blushed like any milkmaid at their talking. I was tired one day from hunting, I remember, On my way home from the woods; the day was warm, And I was twice as warm from all my effort. I found some water, moving without a ripple, Without a sound, clear to the very bottom, You would not think the water was even moving, You could count the pebbles, and the silver willows And poplars shaded the sloping banks. I stood there, Paused, dipped my toes in, waded to my knees, And this was not enough. I took my clothes off And hung them on a willow, bending over, And plunged in naked, and while I beat the waters With one stroke and another, and turned and glided, I thought I heard a curious kind of murmur From deep down under. I fled to the bank in terror, Heard Alpheus calling: ‘Where are you going, Where are you going in such a hurry, Arethusa?’

Minerva and the Muses • 125 lines 600–632 He said it twice, in that hoarse voice he had, And I kept running, naked, for my clothes Were on the other bank, and all the more He kept on coming; naked, so he thought, I was readier for the taking. So I fled, And he kept coming after me, as fierce As falcon after doves. Past Orchomenus, Past Psophis and Cyllene, past the bays Of Maenalus, beyond cold Erymanthus, I kept on running, and he could not catch me. But I was not as strong, I could keep going In short bursts only, and he could run forever, But still I ran, through fields, through mountain thickets, Over the rocks and cliffs, through pathless places. The sun was at my back; I saw before me, Or my fear made me see, his lengthy shadow Running ahead, and oh, but I was frightened At the sound of his feet and the way his labored breathing Blew on the back of my hair. And I was tiring. ‘Goddess’ I cried, ‘Diana, come and help me, Before I am taken, help your armor-bearer, Carrier, often, of your bow and quiver!’ She was moved, and cast a hollow cloud about me, So I was hidden in mist, and he, blind stalker, Went searching, lost, around that cloak of darkness, Twice he went round the place, and never knew it, Calling ‘O Arethusa, Arethusa!’ You ask me what my feelings were? A lamb Hearing the wolves around the sheepfold howling Would know the answer, or a little rabbit, Hiding in -bushes, hearing the hounds Come near enough to show their snouts and muzzles, While the poor creature huddles frozen in terror. He would not leave, for he had seen no footprints Farther along the trail; he stayed there watching, Shifting his eyes from cloud to ground. Cold sweat

126 • book FIve lines 632–660 Poured over my limbs, and the dark drops were raining From all my body, and wherever I moved, There seemed to be a pool, and even quicker Than I can tell the story I was changed To a stream of water. But even so, he knew me, He laid aside his human shape, became A river again, a watery shape, to join me. My goddess broke the earth, and I plunged downward To the dark depths, and so came here; this land Received me first in upper air; I love it In memory of my goddess.” ‘Arethusa Ended her story, so, and Ceres harnessed Two dragons to her car, and rode through air Midway between the earth and sky, and lighted Near . There she gave Her flying chariot, and bade him sow The grain she gave him,* part in earth untilled, And part in fields long fallow. Over Europe, Over the land of Asia, on to Scythia, He held his way, and reached the royal palace Where lived King Lyncus. “Who are you?” the king Asked him, “Where have you come from? How did you get here? Why have you come?” He said, “I come from Athens; My name, Triptolemus; neither by sea Nor land I come, but through the air. I bring The gifts of Ceres; sow your wide fields with them. The harvest will be bountiful.” And Lyncus Heard him with envy: why not take the credit, Himself, for such a blessing? So he played The generous host, and when his guest was nodding, Drowsy with sleep, he drew the sword to kill him, But Ceres stopped him in the act, and turned him Into the beast that keeps his name, the lynx, Waking Triptolemus, once more to tell him

Minerva and the Muses • 127 lines 661–678 To drive the car through air.’ “And here the song Sung by the eldest sister of the Muses Came to its end, with all the nymphs agreeing The victory was theirs. They were bad losers, The daughters of Pierus, and I had to tell them: ‘It was not enough, it seems, to challenge us In song: for that alone you should be punished, And were not, and you try our patience further With insolent protest. We have had enough, More than enough, and now we yield to anger.’ They mocked her still, and scorned her threatening words, And as they tried to speak, and stretch their fingers, Thumb to the nose, it might have been, they saw Feathers between the fingers, plumage growing Over their arms, and the hard features harden To beaks, and to the woods new birds were added. They tried to beat their breasts, but the wings lifted Their bodies into the air, and there they hovered, Magpies, the chatterboxes of the woodland, Still loving, as they always did, the sound Of their own voices, the appetite for gabble.”

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