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    The Metamorphoses of Ovid
    The Metamorphoses of Ovid
    The Metamorphoses of Ovid
    Ebook570 pages10 hours

    The Metamorphoses of Ovid

    By Ovid

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    The Metamorphoses of Ovid is an epic poem comprised of many Greek and Roman myths. The Metamorphoses may be the most influential text on Western literature and certainly the most influential poem. Ovid's telling of the myths have been retold countless times in many different mediums.
    This Xist Classics edition has been professionally formatted for e-readers with a linked table of contents. This eBook also contains a bonus book club leadership guide and discussion questions. We hope you’ll share this book with your friends, neighbors and colleagues and can’t wait to hear what you have to say about it.

    Xist Publishing is a digital-first publisher. Xist Publishing creates books for the touchscreen generation and is dedicated to helping everyone develop a lifetime love of reading, no matter what form it takes



    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherXist Publishing
    Release dateApr 15, 2015
    ISBN9781623959562
    The Metamorphoses of Ovid
    Author

    Ovid

    Ovid, or Publius Ovidius Naso, was a Roman poet who lived during the reign of Augustus. He was a contemporary of the older Virgil and Horace, with whom Ovid is often ranked one of the three canonical poets of Latin literature.

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    • 4/5
      The Metamorphoses is not a modest work in scope: in his 12,000-line epic, Ovid tells us that he's attempting nothing less than to give us the history of the world from its creation out of Chaos right up to the time of Julius Caesar. The opening section is a grand, orchestral description of the creation in the spirit of Epicurean philosophy, and the final section includes a long speech by Pythagoras exposing a number of his scientific ideas (and arguments for vegetarianism), but what everyone remembers - and what gives the poem its usual title - is the material that fills the middle 13 books, a vast and unruly collection of stories of sex, violence and magical transformation gleaned from authors like Hesiod, Vergil and Homer (or simply made up on the spot by Ovid himself). Gods (of either sex) lust for mortals (of either sex) and have their wicked way or are frustrated; mortals lust for the wrong other mortals; individuals make rash promises or accidentally find themselves in the wrong place; revenge and jealousy get out of hand; or there is simply too much testosterone and alcohol about. And when things go wrong or a god gets peeved, then it's usually the unfortunate mortal who gets changed into an animal, tree, or rock, according to taste. According to Bernard Knox, there are over 250 transformations in the course of the poem (and that's presumably not counting the unnumbered myrmidons and dragon's teeth...). Most of them seem to end unhappily for the mortal in question - in a few cases the transformation saves someone from an imminent danger of rape, but then they are stuck as a tree for the rest of their life. Iphis and Ianthe are the one couple who seem to profit long-term - Iphis is turned into a boy on the eve of the wedding so that they don't violate the Cretan same-sex marriage ban in force at the time. (This is the story Ali Smith uses in Girl meets boy.)One moral that really comes out of the story is that we should be very careful not to give our children names that sound like animals or plants. That's just asking for trouble. Especially if they happen to be called "Cycnus" - there are three separate characters with this name, in Books II, VII and XII, and they all get turned into swans. Nominative determinism gone crazy...!Of course, Ovid being such an accessible source for subsequent poets, painters, dramatists, opera librettists and others, many of the stories are very familiar, but what is really striking when you read the whole thing is the pace. Ovid rarely lingers over descriptions (when he does, he's usually making some sort of satirical point), but hammers through the story at maximum speed, and segues into a new and quite different story - connected or not - as soon as he gets to the climax of the previous one. Or inserts a story in the middle of another one, down to two or three levels (not quite as much deep recursion as the Panchatantra, though). From the Big Bang to the moment when "terra sub Augusto est", the music never stops. Even the transition from one book to the next is usually just the flick of an eye - Ovid knows all about cliffhangers and doesn't hesitate to use them.The speed and efficiency of his storytelling come across most obviously in Books XII-XIV, where we cover essentially everything Ovid thinks we need to know about the Iliad, Odyssey and Aenead. The Iliad, in particular, is masterfully handled as a single "brain vs. brawn" debate between Ajax and Ulysses, in which the two of them make speeches as if in court to justify their respective contributions to the war effort. In case we hadn't guessed it already from all the scenes where Ovid gleefully shows us muscle-bound heroes acting like dangerous idiots, the poet is firmly on the side of Ulysses. Ovid enjoys himself making gentle fun of the conventions of Big Epic and can't resist teasing Vergil about some small continuity errors in the Aenead. But it's all quite respectful fun - Ovid isn't suggesting for a moment that we don't need to read these great poets. Working out where Ovid himself stands isn't easy at this distance. And he presumably doesn't want it to be easy either - he's writing at the height of Augustus's somewhat hypocritical clampdown on the morals of the Roman upper classes, and whatever he thinks himself, he certainly doesn't want to say anything that counts as explicit blasphemy or corrupting public morals. He's only reporting well-known bits of Greek mythology, after all. It's all the fault of our own dirty minds if we get the impression that the gods and goddesses as portrayed in Ovid are a pretty rotten lot, with only one important claim on our piety, their power to harm us if we annoy them (rather like Augustus, in fact...). And it's for us to decide whether a belief in petulant supernatural interventions is compatible with the logical Epicurean world-view set out in Book I or the Pythagorean pantheism gently mocked in Book XV. From this distance, we can't really know what Ovid expected his sophisticated Roman readers to think, but on the whole I'm inclined to suspect that there's more mockery than piety going on.The Charles Martin translationMy Latin is just about good enough to work my way through Ovid in the Loeb parallel text, but when I tried that it quickly became obvious that I couldn't possibly keep up with Ovid's frenetic narrative pace, so I switched to the Charles Martin translation, mostly because of the few that came to hand, it seemed the best compromise between closeness to the text and readability. Martin chooses to translate Ovid's hexameters into a loose and free-running version of English blank verse (which is based on the iambic pentameter line, of course). This turns out to be a really good choice. It's a form with a very solid track-record, of course, and we're so used to hearing it that it reads very naturally. It does mean that the book gets longer, though - it seems to take Martin about 30-40% more lines than Ovid to say something, so it's not easy to go backwards and forwards between translation and original. The language Martin uses occasionally looks alarmingly modern and American, but he avoids gratuitous anachronisms, and is conscientious about not putting anything in that doesn't have a proper basis in the original text. The one place where he really lets himself go is in the contest between the Muses and the daughters of Pierus in Book V, which he reads as a satire on bad poetryWe’ll show you girls just what real class isGive up tryin’ to deceive the massesYour rhymes are fake: accept our wagerLearn which of us is minor and which is majorThere’s nine of us here and there’s nine of youAnd you’ll be nowhere long before we’re through {...}So take the wings off, sisters, get down and jamAnd let the nymphs be the judges of our poetry slam!...and even that isn't very far from what it says in the Latin, and Martin apologises for it in the introduction and tells us he couldn't help it.Here and there he gives us an editorial interjection if it's needed to explain something like a pun that is only obvious in Latin, but he always marks them off clearly with square brackets. The text also comes with short and unpedantic notes and a very handy index/glossary of names and places that you will need for all those times when you really can't work out whether Jupiter is that person's grandfather, father-in-law, or uncle - or all three. An oddity in this book is that the publishers have used as Introduction an essay Bernard Knox published in the NYRB in 1998, in which he compares the currently-available translations of Ovid and finds them all wanting, except for the work-in-progress by Martin, whose completion he eagerly awaits. Of the current ones, Ted Hughes gets most points for style, but not many for accuracy. That feels almost like the Elizabethan habit of binding favourable blurbs from other poets as part of your book!
    • 3/5
      Unieke en originele verwerking van het hele Griekse en Romein¬se mythologische materiaal. Vele pareltjes.Favoriet van het postmodernisme. Amorele sfeer, en vandaar verwondering lof Augustus (die toch familiewaarden wilde herstellen). Mijn favoriet: Philemon en Baucis
    • 5/5
      33. Metamorphoses by Ovid, translated by A. D. Melville, notes by E. J. Kenneyoriginal date: circa 8 cetranslated 1986format: Paperbackacquired: Library book sale 2012read: July 23 - Aug 15rating: 5I'm not and cannot properly review Ovid's Metamorphoses. Instead just scattered notes.- Metamorphoses has tended to fall out of favor at different times because it's mainly entertaining. It seems it kind of mocks serious study, or can in certain perspectives.- And it is entertaining in a very flexible way. You can read it straight through, or a story at time - usually only a few pages - or in many other ways, including in a reading slump, like I was in when I started. The only thing really daunting about it, assuming you have a decent translation or read Latin, is its length.- The quality of the translation is maybe not that critical. He'll be entertaining regardless. - It's almost chronological, beginning with creation and a few other foundation stories (which for me struck a bunch of interesting notes right off) and ending with Roman history. - Except that Ovid dodges a lot. He avoids, mostly, overlap with Virgil and Homer and other prominent works, finding niches that are generally overlooked, or working in more obscure stories. He has a whole book (there are 15 books) on mostly eastern stories. Anyway, he won't replace your [[Edith Hamilton]] or other Greek mythological guides.- He filled in a lot stories I hadn't caught in ancient literature - like Atalanta and the Calydonian Boar hunt, the battle of the Lapiths and the Centaurs and Pirithous's wedding, or Venus and Adonis.- But main story lines around Theseus, Minos, Hercules, Jason and the Argo and the hunt for the Golden Fleece, most of the Trojan War or even the basic history of the gods or their battle with the giants all get only cursory coverage.- He knew everything, or so it seems. Like his previous works, he works in references to practically all known literature of all types. Some more prominent than others, and many lost. - He also probably (hopefully) made a lot of stuff up.- So he writes a bit like a scholar and bit like creator.- This is largely humor, but it's not funny exactly, or even exactly satire, it's just very clever. He creates entertaining situations and then might overdo it a bit. I don't think I ever really minded, even when he got quite gory. - I think Ovid influences everyone, including many famous art works, but the main work that came to mind as I read it was Spenser's [Faerie Queene]. Not that Spenser has Ovid's mythology, but just that they left me with a very similar sense. All that work they put in and how far and deeply it pulls you out of the world and how yet mainly it's playful, how it can leave you with that magical sense that only exists around the fringes of your consciousness or awareness.- recommended to anyone, because it seemed like it has almost universal appeal, but not everyone, if that makes sense.
    • 4/5
      Enertaining, enlightening, but ultimately light.All the known myths and stories from the Greek/Roman world, with the exception of a few from Homer and Virgil are contained in this lengthy poem to unending transformation.Ovid's boast in the epilogue, "Thoughout all ages, if poets have vision to prophesy the truth, I shall live in my fame." is certainly true.A note on this translation: I have only a smattering of Latin, but found this text to be far superior to the clunky Charles Martin translation, despite Bernard Knox's enthusiasm. The notes were especially helpful. The unnumbered notes are contained in the back of the book so a reader needs two bookmarks. Notes are for the convience of the reader, why put them at the back instead of the foot of the page? and unnumbered too?
    • 3/5
      I read 228 out of 554 pages of Charles Martin's translation of "Metamorphoses" by Ovid before deciding not to finish the book. Ovid was a Roman poet (roughly 43 BC to 17 AD), but his "Metamorphoses" is essentially a book of Greek myths originating hundreds of years before Ovid's time. The entire work is in hexameter poetry, and Charles Martin does an excellent job with this. I particularly love his incorporation of certain modern phrases and wording (e.g. Book V, Line 63: "The crowd went totally ballistic, then") and when the daughters of Pierus challenge the Muses to a poetry contest, and their poetry is rendered in rhyming couplets full of modern urban slang (Book V, Lines 449-495). Martin is clearly very talented, and he's done a brilliant job. I can't envision a translator doing better, at least until English has evolved and a more modern update is in order.So, if I liked Martin's poetry, why didn't I finish the book? Well, I didn't like Ovid's part. Scores of Greek myths are told in a perplexing order, without apparent chronology or sequence. Sometimes a myth is set up as a framing story for another myth (e.g. "So-and-so began to tell her tale, thus:"), and then the book never returns to the framing story, instead proceeding as if the sub-tale were the main tale. Ovid assumes the reader already knows about the most famous mythological figures (e.g. Jason, Perseus, etc.) and jumps to particular, lesser-known episodes in these heroes' lives, omitting their greatest adventures. Inconsistencies in the way certain figures are presented in different parts of the book (e.g. the Sun god) makes it feel like a work written by multiple authors over a long time period. The result is that the book is probably best appreciated as a bunch of tidbits without a larger coherent structure or plot.They myths are filled with cruel, vain, and vindictive gods and the suffering they inflict upon hapless mortals- and sometimes on others, such as when Latona's son (i.e. Apollo) defeats a satyr in a pipe-playing contest and then, as the satyr "cries, the skin is stripped from his body/until he's all entirely one wound:/blood runs out everywhere, and his uncovered/sinews lie utterly exposed to view;/his pulsing veins were flickering, and you/could number all his writhing viscera/and the gleaming organs underneath his sternum" (Book VI, Lines 555-560). Roughly every other story involves a punishment (typically permanent transformation into a plant or animal, but occasionally violent death) that seems like a total perversion of justice. If a book anything like "Metamorphoses" were written today in modern language, it would not be published, and it might be considered the work of a psychopath."Metamorphoses" feels like a confusing blur of stories of cruelty, vindictiveness, and injustice. The excellent poetry cannot ultimately save a story that is so fundamentally unpleasant to read. I understand that "Metamorphoses" is a cultural artifact and a window into the myths of the ancient Greeks, and thus it has value beyond the enjoyment a reader may get from the plot and characters. But Ovid's omission of the most culturally important stories means his work is only suitable for people already versed in the myths. "Metamorphoses" would be a good choice for Greco-Roman scholars or aficionados. Most people would do better with a collection like "D'Aulaires' Book of Greek Myths," a beautifully-illustrated volume that was my own childhood introduction to the Greek myths (and which inspired wonder and enduring love of these stories in a way that Ovid does not).
    • 5/5
      Gods and their love affairs. Gods and their love affairs with mortals. Fate, covetousness, allegiance, brutalities, treachery and chastisements metamorphosing from the cocoon of mighty love. The discordant waves of love dangerously destabilizing romantic notions; overwhelming morality and raison d'être of Gods and mortals alike. Ovid makes you want to write intense poetry and feel affectionate to the idea of love as a device of alteration for better or worse. Love does not conquer all; it destroys and alters everything it touches. That is the best part in Ovid’s poems. They do not have happy endings. Lust or romantic love or ardent worship, acquired in any form changes a person, landscapes, communities mutating elements of fate and tragedies.

      Metamorphoses elucidates the consequence of origin and transformation in its entirety.

      My soul is wrought to sing of forms transformed to bodies new and strange! Immortal Gods inspire my heart, for ye have changed yourselves and all things you have changed! Oh lead my song in smooth and measured strains, from olden days when earth began to this completed time!

      Ovid commences his poems by showing appreciation to God (which he says is yet unknown) for carving a loose mass of earth into a picturesque bounty of nature. The amorphous chaos changed into a convex ecstasy of pathless skies, terrains, rivers, the color and prototypes of birds and animals came through a process of love and hate. Ovid represents the mythical world of story telling and repeating fables with morality lessons. The justifications of rape or incest in Ovid’s works segregate the idea of faithful devotion from the viciousness of powerful acquisition that overcomes delusional love. Betrayals are penalized and loyalties are commended. The treatment of love is sagacious and didactic in this book as compared to his other works in the relating genre. It moves onto a broader scenario, becoming a defining factor in wars, altering powers between constituencies, breaking and making of civilizations. Ovid intends the reader to see the probable metaphoric significance of change as a crucial and homogeneous factor in life itself.

      And now, I have completed a great work, which not Jove's anger, and not fire nor steel, nor fast-consuming time can sweep away. Whenever it will, let the day come, which has dominion only over this mortal frame, and end for me the uncertain course of life. Yet in my better part I shall be borne immortal, far above the stars on high, and mine shall be a name indelible. Wherever Roman power extends her sway over the conquered lands, I shall be read by lips of men. If Poets' prophecies have any truth, through all the coming years of future ages, I shall live in fame.

      As he concludes this epic of transforming love, he credits the survival of Rome to his own prominence making it one of the most influential and renowned works over centuries. Metamorphoses is translated frequently by several modern poets and literary elites.
    • 5/5
      I used this translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses when I was doing my GCSEs, and I've looked out for it ever since. The current poetic translations irritated me, I wanted the version I remembered. Well, lo and behold, my university's library delivered.

      Don't read Ovid's Metamorphoses expecting a novel, or even a single coherent story. It's a series of stories, woven together in a highly flexible framework, which results in some stories being examined at length and others skipped over. There are stories about gods and heroes, about the lovers of gods, and those wronged by the gods. There are all kinds of transformations, including famous stories like that of Orpheus and Eurydice, the rape of Proserpina, the story of Narcissus and Echo, Adonis, Perseus... If you want to read a book which deals with a lot of the traditional Roman stories, Ovid's a good bet.

      I don't know if it's the original or the translator, but either way the narration manages to encapsulate moments of tenderness toward the characters, as well as the moral judgements and so on. Even with the brief glimpses we get, there are characters that are intriguing, even likeable.
    • 4/5
      This is THE Metamorphoses translation to read. Others can't even hold a candle to it (I know, I read some side by side to compare). Beautiful, touching, amazing.

      Rereading bits of this at work 6/11. So good.
    • 4/5
      Ovid's "Metamorphoses" is one of the those classics that I probably would have never bothered to read if not for my pursuit of the 1,001 list. I'm glad I finally picked it up to read it though, even if most of the stories were somewhat familiar from other reading.I really enjoy mythology and found A.D. Melville's translation fairly easy to follow. Ovid flits through Greek and Roman mythology to highlight stories that feature a transformation of some kind... (lots of trees and birds result from these transformations.) He skips some of the major plot points of some myths just to get to the transformation stuff, which I found odd (and it knocked off a star for me.) This is definitely a must-read for those who enjoy mythology... (but if you're one of those people, you've probably already read it anyway!)
    • 5/5
      To fully investigate the entirety of Greek and Roman mythology would take a lifetime. Luckily, Ovid did all the heavy lifting two thousand years ago. Every mythological figure you can think of is in here—from Jupiter to Perseus to Jason to Pygmalion to Romulus. Ovid’s history start at the creation of the universe and goes up to the Caesars of Rome and paints the chronology as a series of changes. In fact, the first lines have the poet saying “My soul would sing of metamorphoses.” Also playing a heavy part is the role of the love god Amor, who is constantly affecting the course of history. I can in no way speak to whether this is a faithful or true translation of Ovid’s work, but I can say that Mandelbaum’s translation is eminently readable and flows well. In some ways, I don’t care if the translation is good or not. It’s the story that matters. Many works of literature and art created since this reference these gods and goddesses, and it was nice to get back to the source material. It’s in Chaucer, in Dante, in Shakespeare, and even in modern jazz (see Patricia Barber and Branford Marsalis). This one may take a while, but it’s well worth the effort. A truly epic book.
    • 4/5
      Metamorphoses by Ovid is a captivating collection of myths. Am I the only person to wish for a flow chart of events and relationships? I loved it, however, I found myself obsessed with researching many of the stories on the internet. Not that I ever have a problem with this but it started to feel compulsive. So many brutalities due to spurned god love.
    • 4/5
      I can't find the original version that I read in my classical civilization course. This is still the same. Ovid is an excellent writer and this compendium of translated "stories" is a beautiful read for those looking for a slice of classical mythology. My favorite is still Orpheus and Eurydice.
    • 5/5
      The classic work in mythology, comprising the original iteration of many of the now-cliche forms of Greek (and Roman) myths. This is not to say that these myths are in their original form, Ovid (a Roman author) tends toward the romanticized versions of Greek myths, but in general delivers quick, accessible reads, all based loosely on the theme of metamophosis from one form to another, like nymphs turning into trees. Flows better than my favorite collection (Hamilton's Mythology) for those who are more interested in reading myths for the sake of literature, but probably not recommended for scholars unless they are serious about the scholarship. If you simply want a collection of myths for reference, quick study, or random reading, go with Edith Hamilton.
    • 1/5
      Were Metamorphoses contemporary it would be a tv clip show called "World's Most Amazing Transformations!", would be aired during the graveyard slot on a Tuesday night, and would be narrated by Jamie Theakston or some other washed up has-been whose one marketable quality lies in having a voice people might recognise. What's more, it would still be a thousand times better than this horrible book.
    • 5/5
      History of the world
    • 4/5
      Short version: loved the writing, got a bit worn out by the subject matter.Ovid is one of the great writers of Western literature and that's pretty obvious from reading The Metamorphoses. I don't know how well Allen Mandelbaum's translation conveys the original Latin, but I enjoyed it. J.C. McKeown's introduction was enough to orient me to the poem and give it some historical context without being overwhelming. (FYI for those who care: beyond that introduction and an afterword in the Everyman's Library edition, there are no other explanatory notes.)I have a lifelong interest in Greek and Roman mythology and many of these stories were not new to me—and many of them were, and that was wonderful. I appreciated Ovid's ability to pull all these stories together (Wikipedia helpfully tells me that there are more than 250 myths involved) into one narrative, with stories nested within other stories. Many retellings of myths focus on plot rather than character: A happened, then B happened, and it ended at C. Ovid gives the characters time to reflect on their desires or actions, to waver in their decisions, to almost save themselves. Even as I was figuratively glaring at Juno while she plotted the destruction of still yet another of Jove's victims/lovers, I enjoyed seeing her point of view.But, well, it's over 500 pages of stories with mostly unhappy endings. Very few people are changed into something else except as a punishment. Love, for so many of the gods and men, was interchangeable with rape. Even when a couple found mutual love, it often ended in death or unwanted transformation. None of this was new to me; it was just wearying reading so much of it at once. So while I loved this book, it'll be a while before I consider rereading it.
    • 5/5
      The half star missing in this review is a self rebuke, rather than any problem with the work. I feel, with every word that I read, the lack of ability to read the original. This is a wonderful translation, thankfully offered in sympathetic text, rather than cod rhyme but, the original must be so much better.Having showed my ignorance, let's get back to the book itself: this is an amazing collection of stories; some new to me and many the prototypes for stories made popular by later authors. There is an early version of Romeo and Juliet, Icarus' forbear and many others that have echoes in more modern fables.I find it intriguing how the gods are worshipped, but often not respected by their acolytes. Gods are cruel, vain but unbeatable. There is not a single story in which the gods come off worse, at the hands of humanity, although, there are occasions whereby a higher god takes pity and issues retribution for cruelty (not that many cases admittedly).Now all I need to do is learn to read ancient Greek poetry, and I'll be able to appreciate Ovid to the full.
    • 4/5
      An elegant, easy-to-read translation in unobtrusive iambic pentameter. Maybe not for purists, as the translator sometimes adds asides within the text (always in square brackets) and he turns the song of the daughters of Pierus into a rap (which I happen to think is a stroke of genius). If you're studying Ovid, this may not be the edition for you. But if you want to read Ovid for pleasure, in consistently articulate, poetic and vivid language, which brings the ancient myths to life, I'd thoroughly recommend this translation. It's also received critical acclaim: it won the Harold Morton Landon Translation Award from the Academy of American Poets.
    • 5/5
      The Metamorphoses is a poem in fifteen books by the Roman poet Ovid describing the history of the world from its creation to the deification of Julius Caesar within a loose mythico-historical framework. Completed in AD 8, it is recognized as a masterpiece of Golden Age Latin literature. The recurring theme, as with nearly all of Ovid's work, is love—be it personal love or love personified in the figure of Amor (Cupid). Indeed, the other Roman gods are repeatedly perplexed, humiliated, and made ridiculous by Amor, an otherwise relatively minor god of the pantheon, who is the closest thing this putative mock-epic has to a hero. Apollo comes in for particular ridicule as Ovid shows how irrational love can confound the god out of reason. The work as a whole inverts the accepted order, elevating humans and human passions while making the gods and their desires and conquests objects of low humor.I read this both with the Sunday Morning Group and as the text for a University of Chicago weekend retreat. Not unlike many works of classical literature this has been a rich cultural resource ever since including authors from Chaucer and Shakespeare to, more recently Ted Hughes, and composers from Gluck and Offenbach to Britten. Ovid based these tales on Greek myths, albeit often with stylistic adaptations.
    • 4/5
      It seems to me that reading Metamorphoses at least once is worthy of the effort, if only to be exposed to this grand writing, and learn the origin stories of things we already know in our contemporary lives. Black ball, Midas touch, hyacinth and Pygmalion come to mind.There’s so much going on in this work. It is grand and sweeping, and sometimes choppy and even more difficult. I would like to have a better grounding in the literature of the time so that I could understand the allusions and homages more easily. Romans loved their blood and guts and adventure tales.In fact, Metamorphoses is rife with violence, gruesome in its detail and astonishing in the litany of names of characters involved in all the “stabbity-stab-stab.” Rape is another prevalent topic, as is punishment by the gods and goddesses.This is not a nice, tidy look at the story of Rome, fiction or not. There were numerous times when I had to stop and remind myself that Metamorphoses was written for an audience who had certain expectations for a great story, and for whom violence was nothing to be squeamish about.The attitudes towards women are difficult, but again, this was written in first century CE, when the very idea of women speaking up for themselves and showing agency was frowned upon at best, punishable at worst. Ancient Rome was a very stratified society, even wealthy women were held to be barely better than the slave class. So it is no surprise this found its way into the literature.There’s so much to enjoy, and revile, in Metamorphoses, it’s impossible to recount them in any way that makes sense. I could comb back through each book’s commentary and look for things to write about here. But I won’t.What I will say is that reading Metamorphoses was a journey worth taking. One which I am just as happy to have completed, leaving me to move on to less complicated books in my stacks. One lasting effect I am sure of, nothing I see or read will ever be the same since reading it.
    • 5/5
      Sex, violence, and humor are often painted as low and primitive: the signs of a failing culture. Yet it is only in cultures with a strong economy and a substantial underclass that such practices can rise from duty to pastime. As Knox's introduction reminds us, Ovid's time was one of pervasive divorce, permissive laws, and open adultery, and our humble author participated in all of them.Eventually, the grand tyrant closed his fist over the upper classes, exerting social controls and invoking the moral standard of an imagined 'golden age' in order to snatch power and discredit his rivals. Though already a popular and influential author and speaker, Ovid was exiled for being both wanton and clever.Both he and Virgil were sent to the extremities of the empire by Augustus, and both wrote epics from their solitude that would equal Homer's. While Virgil's was a capitulation to the emperor, honoring his fictitious lineage and equating heroism with duty, Ovid's was a sly, labyrinthine re-imagining of classic tales, drawing equally on the gold of Olympus brow and the muck between a harlot's toes.Ovid remained more coy about his dirt than Apuleius or Seneca, maintaining plausible deniability with irony and entendre throughout the complex work. Every view, vision, and opinion is put forth at some point, and very rarely are they played straight. Ovid's characters are remarkable creations, each one a subversion of the familiar legend that surrounds them. Of course, by this point many of us are more familiar with Ovid's versions than the ones he was making light of.Virgil inspired the proud, righteous men of words: Dante, Tasso, Milton. Ovid created a style for the tricksters and the conflicted: Petrarch, Donne, Shakespeare, Ariosto, Rabelais. Each of Ovid's myths was a discrete vision, not only by plot, but by theme. His tales were not simply presentations of ideas, but explorations that turned back on themselves over and over.The metaphysical poets would come to adopt this style, creating short works that explored themes, even ritualizing the idea's reversal in the sonnet's volta. The active, visual nature of Ovid was a progression from the extended metaphors of the philosophers to what could be called a true conceit: a symbolic representation at once supportive of and in conflict with the idea it bears.Each of Ovid's tales flows, one into the next, building meaning by relations, counterpoints, repetition, and structure. Each small part builds into a grander whole. Just as all the sundry stories become a mythology, the many symbolic arguments become a philosophy.Instead of the Virgilian heroic mode, where one man wins, thereby vindicating his philosophy, Ovid shows a hundred victories and losses, creating an aggregate meaning. That isn't to say that there isn't depth and conflict between characters and ideas in Virgil, but his centralized, political theme deprives him of the freedom to move from one idea to the next.This lack of freedom is a boon for most authors. The most structured style is the one which most benefits an unskilled author, because it gives tangible boundaries and tools with which to create. With no boundaries, the author has no way to judge himself, and nowhere to start.Imagine a man is given all the parts to a lawnmower. He can build little else than a lawnmower, but his chances of being successful are fairly high. Now give the same man all the uncut materials and tools in a shop. He could now make nearly any small machine, but it would take much more knowledge and skill.Likewise, it's easier to write good poetry when the rhyme scheme, scansion, and meter are pre-determined than to create a beauty and flow in blank verse. Yet Ovid deconstructed his stories, starting and stopping them between books and moving always back and forth. He provided himself with absolute freedom, but maintained his flow and progression, even without the crutches of tradition.While his irony and satire are the clearest signs of his remarkable mind, the most impressive is probably this: that he flaunted tradition, style, and form, but never faltered in his grand work.Virgil knew what he did when he attached himself to Augustus' train; likewise Ovid recognized how his simultaneous praise and subversion of Augustus' legacy would play: none could openly accuse him of treason, but anyone with a solid mind would see the dangerous game Ovid played with his king and patron.He did not shy from critiquing Augustus even as he wrote for him, for his nation, and for history. Ovid's parting shot is the famous assertion that as long as Rome's name is spoken aloud, so will be Ovid's. This has been echoed since by Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Milton, so that what Ovid realized we would never doubt today.Even banished to the wilderness, out of favor, the only way to silence the artist is to kill him, and this must be done long before he has an audience. Augustus got his month, but his empire fell. Ovid's empire grows by books and minds each year, and its capital is still The Metamoprhoses.I researched long trying to decide on a translation. Though there are many competent versions out there, I chose Martin's. I recall seeing the cover and coveting it, but distrusting the unknown translation. Imagine my surprise after my research turned up my whim.I enjoyed Martin's translation for the same reason I appreciate Fagles': the vibrancy, wit, and drive of the language. Both are poetic, exciting, risk-taking, but also knowledgeable and deliberate. Every translation is a new work of art, all it's own, and I respect translators who don't pretend otherwise.The translators of the fifties were more staunchly academic, capturing meaning and precision, but in enshrining the classics, they fail to take the sorts of risks that make a work bold. Contrarily, the early translators, like Pope, recreated the work in their own vernacular, not merely as a translation, but as a new work, as Shakespeare's plays are to Plutarch's Lives.Martin (and Fagles) take the more modern approach, championed by the literary style of T.S. Eliot and James Joyce, whose works are solidly grounded in their tradition, deliberately and knowledgeably drawn, but with the verve and novelty of the iconoclast. There is something particularly fitting in this, since Ovid himself was an iconoclast who mixed formalized tradition with subversion and irony.Martin proved himself utterly fearless in the altercation between the Pierides and the Muses. Martin styles their competing songs as a poetry jam, drawing on the vocal forms of rap music. I must admit I was shocked at first, and unable to reconcile, but as I kept reading, I came to realize that it was not my place to question.For translation is the adaptation of one style to another, one word or phrase or invocation to something more familiar. In his desire to capture the competition and skill of song in these early contests, he drew on what may be the only recognizable parallel to modern man. What is remarkable is not how different the two styles are from one another, but how similar.It is comical, it is a bit absurd, but he is altering the original purpose less than Pope, who translated all of the poetry into anachronism. I never thought I would prefer a translation of Ovid which contained the word 'homie', but if Martin can be true enough to the poetry to write it, I can be brave enough to laud it.I still laugh, but only because Martin has revealed to me something of the impossibility and oddity inherent to translation. This certainly isn't your grandfather's Ovid, but then, your grandfather's Ovid wasn't the real one, either.I also appreciated Knox's introduction in both Martin's and Fagle's work, though Knox's Homeric background is stronger. I found the end-notes insightful and useful, though they are never quite numerous to suit me, but such is the nature of reading in translation.
    • 4/5
      I love Metamorphoses -- it's on my list of books everyone should read. I generally prefer the Greek writers over the Romans, but Ovid is one you don't want to miss. The myths included range from the popular tales that we all know and love to more obscure events that are like gems to mythology buffs. I do have to say, though, that the Penguin Classics version that I have is a prose translation, and I don't care for that at all. It's one clunky paragraph after the next, and I find it hard to read. I recommend finding a more verse-like translation.
    • 5/5
      Was Ovid the most talented poet of all time? Who outdid him?
    • 4/5
      A surprisingly pacey read; whilst somewhat lacking in structure, there is at least some overall thematic cohesion, and the writing itself is superb. If girls being turned into trees is your thing, then this is the epic poem for you. Also, rape.
    • 4/5
      Seemingly dozens of rape stories, and the only prevention mechanism was to be morphed into a laurel tree, cow, toaster oven, you name it. And sometimes even that didn't stop these twisted deities. There were many other snippets of the well known stories of Perseus, Theseus, Icarus, Jason, etc., as well as some "new" takes on Aeneas and Ulysses. I was intrigued by the brief comments about natural history (ie, spontaneous generation).The stories and characters are many; it can get confusing. Also, I don't think I caught much of Ovid's humor. I listened to the Blackstone Recording and Mr. Kraft is an excellent, dramatic reader. Sometimes however he did sound like the possessed Rick Moranes character in the first Ghostbusters movie.Overall, it was a very fanciful and worthwhile experience.
    • 5/5
      I absolutely love this Renaissance translation. The long lines are quite a workout, but the beautiful language makes it completely worth it. When using Ovid as a reference, this is definitely the translation to use for eloquence.
    • 5/5
      Important Note: This review is for the edition translated by Z. Philip Ambrose. Seeing as the review focuses mainly on the translation, this will not work for all copies of the book. You have been warned.Introduction:Right of the bat, I'll admit I'm slightly biased. The translator for this version, Ambrose, was my professor for my greek and roman mythology class I took at UVM. This was a required text and took me about five minutes to realize he was the translator once I got into class. That automatically made the class special. Of all the ancient translations I've read, I can finally say I've known the translator. Just keep this in mind as I continue my review.Content:Ovid is great, pure and simple. I love his stories and the way he writes them. Every time once of my friends asks for a story when we're bored I immediately go to my memories of Ovid and pick out one of my favorites stories. Usually this is the tale of Narcissus and Echo or Atremis and Actaeon.Translation and Notes:If anyone is interested in reading Ovid they already know the value of his works and what they contain (if you don't, then the rest of this review may not be as important to you). Henceforth, that is not the primary focus of my review and will, instead, focus on the translation, notes, and diagrams included in this edition. There is a formidable Table of Contents that lists each story for easy reference. At the end there contains an index/glossary that is near sixty pages in length, chronicling each place, god, and mortal, who they are and when they appear. This is much more handy that it first sounds and I've used it constantly. The introduction, which for me is normally boring and overly long, gives a brief synopsis of each book and the tales included within. That helped me to no end when studying for a test!Notes in the book were on the bottom of the page and usually helped the reader with synonyms (like Abantaides is Perseus), places, and names. Easy and very important.The two most important things in this edition are the illustrations and the translation itself. The illustrations, of which there are many, added greatly to the events depicted in each tale. I found that I used these illustrations as landmarks for individual tales more than the Table of Contents or the Index. For these alone I would recommend this edition yet we have not even touched upon the translation! Fortunately, the translation was just what I wanted: readable and very true to the original Latin. When I first read this translation as a sophomore, I thought it fun to read. Not necessarily easy (for I think poetry and classical texts should be a brain-working experience and require a decent amount of effort put into it) but still fun. When I revisited the text as a senior and translated the original Latin I developed a new appreciation for Ovid and Ambrose. Ovid's Latin was great (of course) and Ambrose did his utmost best to stay true to the original. I used Ambrose's work as a 'cheat sheet', if you will, as I read the Latin for class. The translation was almost word for word, line for line, and a young Latin student's gift from the gods. Until you've tried translating for yourself you can't imagine how great this was, to have each line match up with the original. Just...superb!However, I must note that I have not read a different translation. Overall, I don't think it would matter. Penguin comes out with decent translations (and they have the most, by far) and Oxford World Classics give even better translations with awesome notes except I found both these translations lacking something special when I glanced over them in the bookstores. Perhaps because they didn't have those wonderful illustrations or they aren't set-up as neatly, I still have no desire to further explore my dislike. Take this new bit of information as you will, my view of this translation will certainly not change.Conclusion:A great literal, but definitely readable, translation of Ovid's well-known work of stories and myths, complete with illustrations. Great for the beginner and Latin student alike. Highly recommended.
    • 3/5
      I would've given this book four stars if it's more organized. The frequent jumps from one story to another really annoyed me. I think I like Bulfinch's Mythology better.Anyway, the title is damn right accurate since many people/deities here were turned into birds, rivers, stones, etc whether as forms of punishments or pity from the gods. Speaking about the gods, yes, I should repeat this: they're a bunch of vengeful, petty, envious rapists/douche bags. I don't think I can find any favorite. Definitely don't wanna live in a world full of those scumbags.Some stories are great, some are downright boring, if not repetitive. But, still worth to read, I guess.
    • 2/5
      #2 on the 1,001 Books to Read list. 999 to go. The takeaway was that I'm now properly prepared for the Jeopardy! category of Roman Gods, should I ever get on the show, and should that come up. Absent that, I was in a fog most of the time, barely able to follow the narrative, which read much like Ginzberg's Legends of the Jews, in that it took fragmented, eclectic tales and fashioned them into a linear story. The violence was a bit disturbing at times, Blood Meridian style, and I did enjoy learning a bit more about these myths I knew vaguely, but honestly, I was just happy to be done so I could move on to the next book.
    • 4/5
      A great classical work. How gods and goddesses, heroes and heroines are transformed according to the ancient myths.

    Book preview

    The Metamorphoses of Ovid - Ovid

    Questions

    THE First Book OF THE METAMORPHOSES OF OVID.

        From bodies various form'd, mutative shapes

    My Muse would sing:—Celestial powers give aid!

    From you those changes sprung,—inspire my pen;

    Connect each period of my venturous song

    Unsever'd, from old Chaös' rude misrule,

    Till now the world beneath Augustus smiles.

        While yet nor earth nor sea their place possest,

    Nor that cerulean canopy which hangs

    O'ershadowing all, each undistinguish'd lay,

    And one dead form all Nature's features bore;

    Unshapely, rude, and Chaos justly nam'd.

    Together struggling laid, each element

    Confusion strange begat:—Sol had not yet

    Whirl'd through the blue expanse his burning car:

    Nor Luna yet had lighted forth her lamp,

    Nor fed her waning light with borrowed rays.

    No globous earth pois'd inly by its weight,

    Hung pendent in the circumambient sky:

    The sky was not:—Nor Amphitrité had

    Clasp'd round the land her wide-encircling arms.

    Unfirm the earth, with water mix'd and air;

    Opaque the air; unfluid were the waves.

    Together clash'd the elements confus'd:

    Cold strove with heat, and moisture drought oppos'd;

    Light, heavy, hard, and soft, in combat join'd.

        Uprose the world's great Lord,—the strife dissolv'd,

    The firm earth from the blue sky plac'd apart;

    Roll'd back the waves from off the land, and fixt

    Where pure ethereal joins with foggy air.

    Defin'd each element, and from the mass

    Chaötic, rang'd select, in concord firm

    He bound, and all agreed. On high upsprung

    The fiery ether to the utmost heaven:

    The atmospheric air, in lightness next,

    Upfloated:—dense the solid earth dragg'd down

    The heavier mass; and girt on every side

    By waves circumfluent, seiz'd her place below.

        This done, the mass this deity unknown

    Divides;—each part dispos'd in order lays:

    First earth he rounds, in form a sphere immense,

    Equal on every side: then bids the seas,

    Pent in by banks, spread their rude waves abroad,

    By strong winds vext; and clasp within their arms

    The tortuous shores: and marshes wide he adds,

    Pure springs and lakes:—he bounds with shelving banks

    The streams smooth gliding;—slowly creeping, some

    The arid earth absorbs; furious some rush,

    And in the watery plain their waves disgorge;

    Their narrow bounds escap'd, to billows rise,

    And lash the sandy shores. He bade the plains

    Extend;—the vallies sink;—the groves to bloom;—

    And rocky hills to lift their heads aloft.

    And as two zones the northern heaven restrain,

    The southern two, and one the hotter midst,

    With five the Godhead girt th' inclosed earth,

    And climates five upon its face imprest.

    The midst from heat inhabitable: snows

    Eternal cover two: 'twixt these extremes

    Two temperate regions lie, where heat and cold

    Meet in due mixture; 'bove the whole light air

    Was hung:—as water floats above the land,

    So fire 'bove air ascends. Here he bade lodge,

    Thick clouds and vapors; thunders bellowing loud

    Terrific to mankind, and winds; which mixt

    Sharp cold beget. But these to range at large

    The air throughout, his care forbade. E'en now

    Their force is scarce withstood; but oft they threat

    Wild ruin to the universe, though each

    In separate regions rules his potent blasts.

    Such is fraternal strife! Far to the east

    Where Persian mountains greet the rising sun

    Eurus withdrew. Where sinking Phœbus' rays

    Glow on the western shores mild Zephyr fled.

    Terrific Boreas frozen Scythia seiz'd,

    Beneath the icy bear. On southern climes

    From constant clouds the showery Auster rains.

    The liquid ether high above he spread,

    Light, calm, and undefil'd by dregs terrene.

    Scarce were those bounds immutable arrang'd,

    When upward sprung the stars so long press'd down

    Beneath the heap chaötic, and along

    The path of heaven their blazing courses ran.

        Next that each separate element might hold

    Appropriate habitants,—the vault of heaven,

    Bright constellations and the gods receiv'd.

    To glittering fish allotted were the waves:

    To earth fierce brutes:—to agitated air,

    Light-plumag'd birds. A being more divine,

    Of soul exalted more, and form'd to rule

    The rest was wanting. Then he finish'd MAN!

    Or by the world's creator, power supreme,

    Form'd from an heavenly seed; or new-shap'd earth

    Late from celestial ether torn, and still

    Congenial warmth retaining, moisten'd felt,

    Prometheus' fire, and moulded took the form

    Of him all-potent. Others earth behold

    Pronely;—to man a face erect was given.

    The heavens he bade him view, and raise his eyes

    High to the stars. Thus earth of late so rude,

    So shapeless, man, till now unknown, became.

        First sprung the age of gold. Unforc'd by laws

    Strict rectitude and faith, spontaneous then

    Mankind inspir'd. No judge vindictive frown'd;

    Unknown alike were punishment and fear:

    No strict decrees on brazen plates were seen;

    Nor suppliant crowd, with trembling limbs low bent,

    Before their judges bow'd. Unknown was law,

    Yet safe were all. Unhewn from native hills,

    The pine-tree knew the seas not, nor had view'd

    Regions unknown, for man not yet had search'd

    Shores distant from his own. The towns ungirt

    By trenches deep, laid open to the plain;

    Nor brazen trump, nor bended horn were seen,

    Helmet, nor sword; but conscious and secure,

    Unaw'd by arms the nations tranquil slept.

    The teeming earth by barrows yet unras'd,

    By ploughs unwounded, plenteous pour'd her stores.

    Content with food unforc'd, man pluck'd with ease

    Young strawberries from the mountains; cornels red;

    The thorny bramble's fruit; and acorns shook

    From Jove's wide-spreading tree. Spring ever smil'd;

    And placid Zephyr foster'd with his breeze

    The flowers unsown, which everlasting bloom'd.

    Untill'd the land its welcome produce gave,

    And unmanur'd its hoary crop renew'd.

    Here streams of milk, there streams of nectar flow'd;

    And from the ilex, drop by drop distill'd,

    The yellow honey fell. But, Saturn down

    To dusky Tartarus banish'd, all the world

    By Jove was govern'd. Then a silver age

    Succeeded; by the golden far excell'd;—

    Itself surpassing far the age of brass.

    The ancient durance of perpetual spring

    He shorten'd, and in seasons four the year

    Divided:—Winter, summer, lessen'd spring,

    And various temper'd autumn first were known.

    Then first the air with parching fervor dry,

    Glow'd hot;—then ice congeal'd by piercing winds

    Hung pendent;—houses then first shelter'd man;

    Houses by caverns form'd, with thick shrubs fenc'd,

    And boughs entwin'd with osiers. Then the grain

    Of Ceres first in lengthen'd furrows lay;

    And oxen groan'd beneath the weighty yoke.

    Third after these a brazen race succeeds,

    More stern in soul, and more in furious war

    Delighting;—still to wicked deeds averse.

    The last from stubborn iron took its name;—

    And now rush'd in upon the wretched race

    All impious villainies: Truth, faith, and shame,

    Fled far; while enter'd fraud, and force, and craft,

    And plotting, with detested avarice.

    To winds scarce known the seaman boldly loos'd

    His sails, and ships which long on lofty hills

    Had rested, bounded o'er the unsearch'd waves.

    The cautious measurer now with spacious line

    Mark'd out the land, in common once to all;

    Free as the sun-beams, or the lucid air.

    Nor would the fruits and aliments suffice,

    The rich earth from her surface threw, but deep

    Within her womb they digg'd, and thence display'd,

    Riches, of crimes the prompter, hid far deep

    Close by the Stygian shades. Now murderous steel,

    And gold more murderous enter'd into day:

    Weapon'd with each, war sallied forth and shook

    With bloody grasp his loud-resounding arms.

    Now man by rapine lives;—friend fears his host;

    And sire-in-law his son;—e'en brethren's love

    Is rarely seen: wives plot their husbands' death;

    And husbands theirs design: step-mothers fierce

    The lurid poisons mix: th' impatient son

    Enquires the limits of his father's years:—

    Piety lies neglected; and Astræa,

    Last of celestial deities on earth,

    Ascends, and leaves the sanguine-moisten'd land.

        Nor high-rais'd heaven was more than earth secure.

    Giants, 'tis said, with mad ambition strove

    To seize the heavenly throne, and mountains pile

    On mountains till the loftiest stars they touch'd.

    But with his darted bolt all-powerful Jove,

    Olympus shatter'd, and from Pelion's top

    Dash'd Ossa. There with huge unwieldy bulk

    Oppress'd, their dreadful corses lay, and soak'd

    Their parent earth with blood; their parent earth

    The warm blood vivify'd, and caus'd assume

    An human form,—a monumental type

    Of fierce progenitors. Heaven they despise,

    Violent, of slaughter greedy; and their race

    This from his lofty seat beheld, and sigh'd;

    The recent bloody fact revolving deep,

    The Lycaönian feast, to few yet known.

    Incens'd with mighty rage, rage worthy Jove,

    He calls the council;—none who hear delay.

    A path sublime, in cloudless skies fair seen,

    They tread when tow'rd the mighty thunderer's dome,

    His regal court, th' immortals bend their way.

    On right and left by folding doors enclos'd,

    Are halls where gods of rank and power are set;

    Plebeians far and wide their place select:

    More potent deities, in heaven most bright,

    Full in the front possess their shining seats.

    This place, (might words so bold a form assume)

    I'd term Palatium of the lofty sky.

    Here in his marble niche each god was plac'd

    And on his eburn sceptre leaning, Jove

    O'er all high tower'd; the dread-inspiring locks

    Three times he shook; and ocean, earth, and sky,

    The motion felt and trembled. Then in rage

    The silence thus he broke:—"Not more I fear'd

    "Our kingdom's fate in those tempestuous times,

    "When monsters serpent-footed furious strove,

    "To clasp within their hundred arms the heavens,

    "Already captive deem'd. Though fierce our foe,

    "One race alone warr'd with us, sprung from one.

    "Now all must perish; all within the bounds

    "By Nereus circled with his roaring waves.

    "I swear by Styx, by those infernal streams,

    "Through shades slow creeping. All I could I've try'd.

    "But lest to parts unsound the taint should spread,

    "What baffles cure, the knife must lop away.

    "Our demi-gods we have,—we have our nymphs,

    "Our rustic deities,—our satyrs,—fawns,

    "And mountain sylvans—whose deserts we grant

    "Celestial honors claim not,—yet on earth,

    "By us assign'd, they safely sure should rest.

    "But, oh! ye sacred powers,—but oh! how safe

    "Are these, when fierce Lycaön plots for me!

    Me! whom the thunders and yourselves obey?

        Loud murmurs fill the skies—swift vengeance all

    With eager voice demand. When impious hands

    With Cæsar's blood th' immortal fame of Rome,

    Rag'd to extinguish—all the world aghast,

    With horror shook, and trembled through its frame.

    Nor was thy subjects' loyalty to thee

    More sweet, Augustus, than was theirs to Jove.

    His hand and voice, to still their noise he rais'd:

    Their clamors loud were hush'd, all silence kept;

    When thus the thunderer ends his angry tale:

    "Dismiss your care, his punishment is o'er;

    "But hear his crimes, and hear his well-earn'd fate.

    "Of human vice the fame had reach'd mine ear,

    "With hop'd exaggeration; gliding down,

    "From proud Olympus' brow, I veil'd the god,

    "And rov'd the world in human form around.

    "'Twere long to tell what turpitude I saw

    "On every side, for rumor far fell short,

    "Of what I witness'd. Through the dusky woods

    "Of Mænalus I pass'd, where savage lurk

    "Fierce monsters; o'er the cold Lycean hill,

    "With pine-trees waving; and Cyllené's height.

    "Thence to th' Arcadian monarch's roof I came,

    "As dusky twilight drew on sable night.

    "Gave signs a god approach'd. The people crowd

    "In adoration: but Lycaön turns

    "Their reverence and piety to scorn.

    "Then said,—not hard the task to ascertain,

    "If god or mortal, by unerring test:

    "And plots to slay me when oppress'd with sleep.

    "Such proof his soul well suited. Impious more,

    "An hostage from Molossus sent he slew;

    "His palpitating members part he boil'd,

    "And o'er the glowing embers roasted part:

    "These on the board he serves. My vengeful flames

    "Consume his roof;—for his deserts, o'erwhelm

    "His household gods. Lycaön trembling fled

    "And gain'd the silent country; loud he howl'd,

    "And strove in vain to speak; his ravenous mouth

    "Still thirsts for slaughter; on the harmless flocks

    "His fury rages, as it wont on man:

    "Blood glads him still; his vest is shaggy hair;

    "His arms sink down to legs; a wolf he stands.

    "Yet former traits his visage still retains;

    "Grey still his hair; and cruel still his look;

    "His eyes still glisten; savage all his form.

    "Thus one house perish'd, but not one alone

    "The fate deserves. Wherever earth extends,

    "The fierce Erinnys reigns; men seem conspir'd

    "In impious bond to sin; and all shall feel

    The scourge they merit: fixt is my decree.

        Part loud applaud his words, and feed his rage;

    The rest assent in silence; yet to all,

    Man's loss seems grievous; anxious all enquire

    What form shall earth of him depriv'd assume?

    Who then shall incense to their altars bring?

    And if those rich and fertile lands he means

    A spoil for beasts ferocious? Their despair

    He bade them banish, and in him confide

    For what the future needed; held them forth

    The promise of a race unlike the first;

    Originating from a wonderous stock.

        And now his lightenings were already shot,

    And earth in flames, but that a fire so vast,

    He fear'd might reach Olympus, and consume

    The heavenly axis. Also call'd to mind

    What fate had doom'd, that all in future times

    By fire should perish, earth, and sea, and heaven;

    And all th' unwieldy fabric of the world

    Should waste to nought. The Cyclops' labor'd bolts

    Aside he laid. A different vengeance now,

    To drench with rains from every part of heaven,

    And whelm mankind beneath the rising waves,

    Pleas'd more th' immortal. Straightway close he pent

    The dry north-east, and every blast to showers

    Adverse, in caves Æolian, and unbarr'd

    The cell of Notus. Notus rushes forth

    On pinions dropping rain; his horrid face

    A pitchy cloud conceals; pregnant with showers

    His beard; and waters from his grey hairs flow:

    Mists on his forehead sit; in dews dissolv'd

    His arms and bosom, seem to melt away.

    With broad hands seizing on the pendent clouds

    He press'd them—with a mighty crash they burst,

    And thick and constant floods from heaven pour down.

    Iris meantime, in various robe array'd,

    Collects the waters and supplies the clouds.

    Prostrate the harvest lies, the tiller's hopes

    Turn to despair. The labors of an year,

    A long, long year, without their fruit are spent.

    Nor Jove's own heaven his anger could suffice,

    His brother brings him his auxiliar waves.

    He calls the rivers,—at their monarch's call

    His roof they enter, and in brief he speaks:

    "Few words we need, pour each his utmost strength,

    "The cause demands it; ope' your fountains wide,

    "Sweep every mound before you, and let gush

    Your furious waters with unshorten'd reins.

    He bids—the watery gods retire,—break up

    Their narrow springs, and furious tow'rd the main

    Their waters roll: himself his trident rears

    And smites the earth; earth trembles at the stroke,

    Yawns wide her bosom, and upon the land

    A flood disgorges. Wide outspread the streams

    Rush o'er the open fields;—uproot the trees;

    Sweep harvests, flocks, and men;—nor houses stood;

    Nor household gods, asylums hereto safe.

    Where strong-built edifice its walls oppos'd

    Unlevell'd in the ruin, high above

    Its roof the billows mounted, and its towers

    Totter'd, beneath the watery gulf oppress'd.

    Nor land nor sea their ancient bounds maintain'd,

    For all around was sea, sea without shore.

    This seeks a mountain's top, that gains a skiff,

    And plies his oars where late he plough'd the plains.

    O'er fields of corn one sails, or 'bove the roofs

    Of towns immerg'd;—another in the elm

    Seizes th' intangled fish. Perchance in meads

    The anchor oft is thrown, and oft the keel

    Tears the subjacent vine-tree. Where were wont

    The nimble goats to crop the tender grass

    Unwieldy sea-calves roll. The Nereid nymphs,

    With wonder, groves, and palaces, and towns,

    Beneath the waves behold. By dolphins now

    The woods are tenanted, who furious smite

    The boughs, and shake the strong oak by their blows.

    Swims with the flock the wolf; and swept along,

    Tigers and tawny lions strive in vain.

    Now not his thundering strength avails the boar;

    Nor, borne away, the fleet stag's slender limbs:

    And land, long sought in vain, to rest her feet,

    The wandering bird draws in her weary wings,

    And drops into the waves, whose uncheck'd roll

    The hills have drown'd; and with un'custom'd surge

    Foam on the mountain tops. Of man the most

    They swallow'd; whom their fierce irruption spar'd,

    By hunger perish'd in their bleak retreat.

        Between th' Aönian and Actæian lands

    Lies Phocis; fruitful were the Phocian fields

    While fields they were, but now o'erwhelm'd, they form

    A region only of the wide-spread main.

    Here stands Parnassus with his forked top,

    Above the clouds high-towering to the stars.

    To this Deucalion with his consort driven

    O'er ridgy billows in his bark clung close;

    For all was sea beside. There bend they down;

    The nymphs, and mountain gods adore, and she

    Predicting Themis, then oraculous deem'd.

    No man more upright than himself had liv'd;

    Than Pyrrha none more pious heaven had seen.

        Now Jove beheld a mighty lake expand

    Where late was earth, and from the swarming crowds

    But one man sav'd—of woman only one:

    Both guiltless,—pious both. He chas'd the clouds

    And bade the dry north-east to drive the showers

    Far distant, and display the earth to heaven,

    And unto earth the skies. The ocean's rage

    Remains no more. Mild Neptune lays aside

    His three-fork'd weapon, and his surges smoothes;

    Then calls blue Triton from the dark profound.

    Above the waves the god his shoulders rears,

    With inbred purple ting'd: He bids him sound

    His shelly trump, and back the billows call;

    And rivers to their banks again remand.

    The trump he seizes,—broad above it wreath'd

    From narrow base;—the trump whose piercing blast

    From east to west resounds through every shore.

    This to his mouth the watery-bearded god

    Applies, and breathes within the stern command.

    All hear the sound, or waves of earth or sea,

    And all who hear obey. Sea finds a shore;

    Floods flow within their channels; rivers sink;

    Hills lift their heads; and as the waves decrease,

    In numerous islets solid earth appears.

    A tedious time elaps'd, and now the woods

    Display'd their leafless summits, and their boughs

    Heavy with mud. At length the world restor'd

    Deucalion saw, but empty all and void;

    Deep silence reigning through th' expansive waste:

    Tears gush'd while thus his Pyrrha he address'd:

    "O sister! wife! O woman sole preserv'd!—

    "By nature, kindred, and the marriage-bed,

    "To me most closely join'd. Now nearer still

    "By mutual perils. We, of all the earth

    "Beheld by Sol in his diurnal course,

    "We two alone remain. The mighty deep

    "Entombs the rest. Nor sure our safety yet;

    "Still hang the clouds dark louring. Wretched wife,

    "What if preserv'd alone? What hadst thou done

    "Of me bereft? How singly borne the shock?

    "Where found condolement in thy load of grief?

    "For me,—and trust, my dearest wife, my words,—

    "Hadst thou amidst the billows been ingulph'd,

    "Me also had they swallow'd. Oh! for power

    "To form mankind, as once my father did,

    "And in the shapen earth true souls infuse!

    "In us rests human race, so will the gods,

    A sample only of mankind we live.

    He spoke and Pyrrha's tears join'd his. To heaven

    They raise their hands in prayer, and straight resolve

    To ask through oracles divine its aid.

    Nor long delay. Quick to Cephisus' streams

    They hasten; muddy still Cephisus flows,

    Yet not beyond its wonted boundaries swol'n.

    Libations thence they lift, and o'er their heads

    And garments cast the sprinklings;—then their steps

    To Themis' temple bend. The roof they found

    With filthy moss o'ergrown;—the altars cold.

    Prone on the steps they fell, and trembling kiss'd

    The gelid stones, and thus preferr'd their words:

    "If righteous prayers can move the heavenly mind,

    "And soften harsh resolves, and soothe the rage

    "Of great immortals, say, O Themis, say,

    "How to the world mankind shall be restor'd;

    "And grant, most merciful, in our distress

    Thy potent aid. The goddess heard their words,

    And instant gave reply. "The temple leave,

    "Ungird your garments, veil your heads, and throw

    Behind your backs your mighty mother's bones.

    Astonish'd long they stood! and Pyrrha first

    The silence broke; the oracle's behest

    Refusing to obey; and earnest pray'd,

    With trembling tongue for pardon for her sin:

    Her mother's shade to violate she dreads,

    Her bones thus rudely flinging. But meantime

    Deep in their minds, in dark mysterious veil

    Obscurely hid, the sentence they revolve.

    At length Deucalion sooths his wife with words

    Of cheering import: "Right, if I divine,

    "No impious deed the deity desires:

    "Earth is our mighty mother, and her bones

    "The stony rocks within her;—these behind

    Our backs to cast, the oracle commands.

    With joy th' auspicious augury she hears,

    But joy with doubt commingled, both so much

    The heavenly words distrust; yet still they hope

    The essay cannot harm. The temple left,

    Their heads they cover, and their vests unbind;

    And o'er their heads as order'd heave the stones.

    The stones—(incredible! unless the fact

    Tradition sanction'd doubtless) straight began

    To lose their rugged firmness,—and anon,

    To soften,—and when soft a form assume.

    Next as they grew in size, they felt infus'd

    A nature mild,—their form resembled man!

    But incorrectly: marble so appears,

    Rough hewn to form a statue, ere the hand

    Completes the shape. What liquid was, and moist,

    With earthy atoms mixt, soft flesh became;

    Parts solid and unbending chang'd to bone;

    In name unalter'd, veins the same remain'd.

    Thus by the gods' beneficent decree,

    And brief the change, the stones Deucalion threw,

    A manly shape assum'd; but females sprung

    From those by Pyrrha cast behind; and hence

    A patient, hard, laborious race we prove,

    And shew the source, by actions, whence we sprung.

        Beings all else the teeming earth produc'd

    Spontaneous. Heated by the solar rays,

    The stagnant water quicken'd;—marshy fens

    Swell'd up their oozy loads to meet the beams:

    And nourish'd by earth's vivifying soil,

    The fruitful elements of life increas'd,

    As in a mother's womb; and in a while

    Assum'd a certain shape. So when the floods

    Of seven-mouth'd Nile desert the moisten'd fields,

    And to their ancient channels bring their streams,

    The soft mud fries beneath the scorching sun;

    And midst the fresh-turn'd earth unnumber'd forms

    The tiller finds: some scarcely half conceiv'd;

    Imperfect some, their bodies wanting limbs:

    And oft he beings sees with parts alive,

    The rest a clod of earth: for where with heat

    Due moisture kindly mixes, life will spring:

    From these in concord all things are produc'd.

    Though fire with water strives; yet vapour warm,

    Discordant mixture, gives a birth to all.

        Thus when the earth, with filthy ooze bespread

    From the late deluge, felt the blazing sun;

    His burning heat productive caus'd spring forth

    A countless race of beings. Part appear'd

    In forms before well-known; the rest a group

    Of monsters strange. Then, but unwilling, she

    Produc'd terrific Python, serpent huge!

    A mighty mountain with his bulk he hid;

    A plague unknown, the new-born race to scare.

    The quiver-shoulder'd god, unus'd before

    His arms to launch, save on the flying deer,

    Or roebuck fleet, the horrid monster slew:

    A thousand arrows in his sides he fix'd,

    His quiver's store exhausting; through the wounds

    Gush'd the black poison. To contending games,

    Hence instituted for the serpent slain,

    The glorious action to preserve through times

    Succeeding, he the name of Pythian gave.

    And here the youth who bore the palm away

    By wrestling, racing, or in chariot swift,

    With beechen bough was crown'd. Nor yet was known

    The laurel's leaf: Apollo's brows, with hair

    Deck'd graceful, no peculiar branches bound.

        Penæian Daphne first his bosom charm'd;

    No casual flame but plann'd by Love's revenge.

    Him, Phœbus flush'd with conquest late obtain'd,

    His bow saw bend, and thus exclaim'd in taunt:

    "Lascivious boy! How ill with thee assort

    "Those warlike arms?—how much my shoulders more

    "Beseem the load, whose arm can deadly wounds

    "In furious beasts, and every foe infix!

    "I who but now huge Python have o'erthrown;

    "Swol'n with a thousand darts; his mighty bulk

    "Whole acres covering with pestiferous weight?

    "Content in vulgar hearts thy torch to flame,

    To me the bow's superior glory leave.

    Then Venus' son: "O Phœbus, nought thy dart

    "Evades, nor thou canst 'scape the force of mine:

    "To thee as others yield,—so much my fame

    Must ever thine transcend. Thus spoke the boy,

    And lightly mounting, cleaves the yielding air

    With beating wings, and on Parnassus' top

    Umbrageous rests. There from his quiver drew

    Two darts of different power:—this chases love;

    And that desire enkindles; form'd of gold

    It glistens, ending in a point acute:

    Blunt is the first, tipt with a leaden load;

    Which Love in Daphne's tender breast infix'd.

    The sharper through Apollo's heart he drove,

    And through his nerves and bones;—instant he loves:

    She flies of love the name. In shady woods,

    And spoils of captive beasts alone she joys;

    To copy Dian' emulous; her hair

    In careless tresses form'd, a fillet bound.

    By numbers sought,—averse alike to all;

    Impatient of their suit, through forests wild,

    And groves, in maiden ignorance she roams;

    Nor cares for Cupid, nor hymeneal rites,

    Nor soft connubial joys. Oft cry'd her sire;

    "My Daphne, you should bring to me a son;

    From you, my child, I hope for grandsons too.

    But she detesting wedlock as a crime,

    (Suffus'd her features with a bashful glow)

    Around his aged neck, her beauteous arms,

    Winds blandishing, and cries, "O sire, most dear!

    "One favor grant,—perpetual to enjoy

    "My virgin purity;—the mighty Jove

    The same indulgence has to Dian' given.

    Thy sire complies;—but that too beauteous face,

    And lovely form, thy anxious wish oppose:

    Apollo loves thee;—to thy bed aspires;—

    And looks with anxious hopes, his wish to gain:

    Futurity, by him for once unseen.

    As the light stubble when the ears are shorn,

    The flames consume: as hedges blaze on high

    From torches by the traveller closely held,

    Or heedless flung, when morning gilds the world:

    So flaming burnt the god;—so blaz'd his breast,

    And with fond hopes his vain desires he fed.

    Her tresses careless flowing o'er her neck

    He view'd, and, Oh! how beauteous, deck'd with care,

    Exclaim'd: her eyes which shone like brilliant fire,

    Or sparkling stars, he sees; and sees her lips;

    Unsated with the sight, he burns to touch:

    Admires her fingers, and her hands, her arms,

    Half to the shoulder naked:—what he sees

    Though beauteous, what is hid he deems more fair.

    Fleet as the wind, her fearful flight she wings,

    Nor stays his fond recalling words to hear:

    "Daughter of Peneus, stay! no foe pursues,—

    "Stay, beauteous nymph!—so flies the lamb the wolf;

    "The stag the lion;—so on trembling wings

    "The dove avoids the eagle:—these are foes,

    "But love alone me urges to pursue.

    "Ah me! then, shouldst thou fall,—or prickly thorns

    "Wound thy fair legs,—and I the cause of pain!—

    "Rough is the road thou runnest; slack, I pray,

    "Thy speed;—I swear to follow not so fast.

    "But hear who loves thee;—no rough mountain swain;

    "No shepherd;—none in raiments rugged clad,

    "Tending the lowing herds: rash thoughtless nymph,

    "Thou fly'st thou know'st not whom, and therefore fly'st!

    "O'er Delphos' lands, and Tenedos I sway,

    "And Claros, and the Pataræan realms.—

    "My sire is Jove. To me are all things known,

    "Or present, past, or future. Taught by me

    "Melodious sounds poetic numbers grace.—

    "Sure is my dart, but one more sure I feel

    "Lodg'd in this bosom; strange to love before.—

    "Medicine me hails inventor; through the world

    "My help is call'd for; unto me is known

    "The powers of plants and herbs:—ah! hapless I,

    "Nor plants, nor herbs, afford a cure for love;

    Nor arts which all relieve, relieve their lord.

    All this, and more:—but Daphne fearful fled,

    And left his speech unfinish'd. Lovely then

    She running seem'd;—her limbs the breezes bar'd;

    Her flying raiment floated on the gale;

    Her careless tresses to the light air stream'd;

    Her flight increas'd her beauty. Now no more

    The god to waste his courteous words endures,

    But urg'd by love himself, with swifter pace

    Her footsteps treads: the rapid greyhound so,

    When in the open field the hare he spies,

    Trusts to his legs for prey,—as she for flight;

    And now he snaps, and now he thinks to hold,

    And brushes with his outstretch'd nose her heels;—

    She trembling, half in doubt, or caught or no,

    Springs from his jaws, and mocks his touching mouth.

    Thus fled the virgin and the god;—he fleet

    Through hope, and she through fear,—but wing'd by love

    More rapid flew Apollo;—spurning rest,

    Approach'd her close behind, and panting breath'd

    Upon her floating tresses. Pale with dread,

    Her strength exhausted in the lengthen'd flight,

    Old Peneus' streams she saw, and loud exclaim'd:—

    "O sire, assist me, if within thy streams

    "Divinity abides. Let earth this form,

    "Too comely for my peace, quick swallow up;

    Or change those beauties to an harmless shape.

    Her prayer scarce ended, when her lovely limbs

    A numbness felt; a tender rind enwraps

    Her beauteous bosom; from her head shoots up

    Her hair in leaves; in branches spread her arms;

    Her feet but now so swift, cleave to the earth

    With roots immoveable; her face at last

    The summit forms; her bloom the same remains.

    Still loves the god the tree, and on the trunk

    His right hand placing, feels her breast yet throb,

    Beneath the new-grown bark: around the boughs,

    As yet her limbs, his clasping arms he throws;

    And burning kisses on the wood imprints.

    The wood his lips repels. Then thus the god:—

    "O laurel, though to be my bride deny'd,

    "Yet shalt thou be my tree; my temples bind;

    "My lyre and quiver shalt thou still adorn:

    "The brows of Latian conquerors shalt thou grace,

    "When the glad people sing triumphant hymns,

    "And the long pomp the capitol ascends.

    "A faithful guard before Augustus' gates,

    "On each side hung;—the sturdy oak between.

    "And as perpetual youth adorns my head

    "With locks unshorn, thou also still shalt bear

    Thy leafy honors in perpetual green.

    Apollo ended, and the laurel bow'd

    Her verdant summit as her grateful head.

        Within Æmonia lies a grove, inclos'd

    By steep and lofty hills on every side:

    'Tis Tempé call'd. From lowest Pindus pour'd

    Here Peneus rolls his foaming waves along:

    Thick clouds of smoke, and dark and vapoury mists

    The violent falls produce, sprinkling the tops

    Of proudest forests with the plenteous dew;

    And distant parts astounding with the roar.

    Here holds the watery deity his throne;—

    Here his retreat most sacred;—seated here,

    Within the rock-form'd cavern, to the streams

    And stream-residing nymphs, his laws he gives.

    Here flock the neighbouring river-gods, in doubt

    Or to condole, or gratulate the sire.

    Here Spercheus came, whose banks with poplars wave;

    Rapid Enipeus; Apidanus slow;

    Amphrysos gently flowing; Æäs mild;

    And other streams which wind their various course,

    Till in the sea their weary wanderings end,

    By natural bent directed. Absent sole

    Was Inachus;—deep in his gloomy cave

    Dark hidden, with his tears he swells his floods.

    He, wretched sire, his Iö's loss bewails;

    Witless if living air she still enjoys,

    Or with the shades she dwells; and no where found

    He dreads the worst, and thinks her not to be.

    The beauteous damsel from her father's banks

    Jove saw returning, and, O, maid! exclaim'd,

    "Worthy of Jove, whose charms will shortly bless

    "Some youth desertless; come, and seek the shade,

    Yon lofty groves afford,—and shew'd the groves,—

    "While now Sol scorches from heaven's midmost height.

    "Fear not the forests to explore alone,

    "But in their deepest shades adventurous go;

    "A god shall guard thee:—no plebeian god,

    "But he whose mighty hand the sceptre grasps

    "Of rule celestial, and the lightening flings.

    O fly me not—for Iö fled, amaz'd.

    Now Lerna's pastures, and Lyrcæa's lands

    With trees thick-planted, far behind were left;

    When with a sudden mist the god conceal'd

    The wide-spread earth, and stopp'd her eager flight;

    And in his arms the struggling maid compress'd.

    Meantime did Juno cast her eyes below,

    The floating clouds surpris'd to see produce

    A night-like shade amidst so bright a day.

    No common clouds, from streams exhal'd, she knew;

    Nor misty vapours from the humid earth.

    Suspicions rise; her sharpness oft had caught

    Her amorous husband in his thefts of love.

    She search'd around the sky, its lord explor'd,—

    But not in heaven he sate;—then loud exclaim'd:

    Much must I err, or much my bed is wrong'd.

    Down sliding from the topmost heaven, on earth

    She lights, and bids the cloudy mists recede.

    Prepar'd already, Jove the nymph had chang'd,

    And in a lovely heifer's form she stood.

    A shape so beauteous fair,—though sore chagrin'd,

    Unwilling Juno prais'd; and whence she came,

    And who her owner asks; and of what herd?

    Her prying art, as witless of the truth,

    To baffle, from the earth he feigns her sprung;

    And straight Saturnia begs the beauteous gift.

    Embarrass'd now he stands,—the nymph to leave

    Abandon'd, were too cruel;—to deny

    His wife, suspicious: shame compliance urg'd;

    Love strong dissuaded: love had vanquish'd shame,

    Save that a paltry cow to her refus'd,

    Associate of his race and bed, he fear'd

    More than a cow the goddess would suspect.

    Her rival now she holds; but anxious, still

    She Jove distrusts, and fears her prize to lose;

    Nor safe she deem'd her, till to Argus' care

    Committed. Round the jailor's watchful head

    An hundred eyes were set. Two clos'd in turn;

    The rest with watchful care, kept cautious guard.

    Howe'er he stands, on Iö still he looks;

    His face averse, yet still his eyes behold.

    By day she pastures, but beneath the earth

    When Phœbus sinks, he drags her to the stall,

    And binds with cords her undeserving neck.

    Arbutus' leaves, and bitter herbs her food:

    Her wretched bed is oft the cold damp earth;

    A strawy couch deny'd:—the muddy stream

    Her constant drink: when suppliant she would raise

    Her arms to Argus, arms to raise were none.

    To moan she tries; loud bellowings echo wide,—

    She starts and trembles at her voice's roar.

    Now to the banks she comes where oft she'd play'd,—

    The banks of Inachus, and in his streams

    Her new-form'd horns beheld;—in wild affright

    From them she strove, and from herself to fly.

    Her sister Naïads know her not, nor he

    Griev'd Inachus, his long-lost daughter knows.

    But she her sisters and her sire pursues;

    Invites their touch, as wondering they caress.

    Old Inachus the gather'd herbs presents;

    She licks his hands, and presses with her lips

    His dear paternal fingers. Tears flow quick,

    And could words follow she would ask his aid;

    And speak her name, and lamentable state.

    Marks for her words she form'd, which in the dust

    Trac'd by her hoof, disclos'd her mournful change.

    Ah wretch! her sire exclaim'd, unhappy wretch!

    And o'er the weeping heifer's snowy neck,

    His arms he threw, and round her horns he hung

    With sobs redoubled:—"Art thou then, my child,

    "Through earth's extent so sought? Ah! less my grief,

    "To find thee not, than thus transform'd to find!

    "But dumb thou art, nor with responsive words,

    "Me cheerest. From thy deep chest sighs alone

    "Thou utterest, and loud lowings to my words:

    "Thou canst no more. Unwitting I prepar'd

    "Thy marriage torches, anxious to behold

    "A son, and next a son of thine to see.

    "Now from the herd a husband must thou seek,

    "Now with the herd thy sons must wander forth.

    "Nor death my woes can finish: curst the gift

    "Of immortality. Eternal grief

    Must still corrode me; Lethé's gate is clos'd.

    Thus griev'd the god, when starry Argus tore

    His charge away, and to a distant mead

    Drove her to pasture;—he a lofty hill's

    Commanding prospect chose, and seated there

    View'd all around alike on every side.

        But now heaven's ruler could no more contain,

    To see the sorrows Iö felt:—he calls

    His son, of brightest Pleiäd mother born,

    And bids him quickly compass Argus' death.

    Instant around his heels his wings he binds;

    His rod somniferous grasps; nor leaves his cap.

    Accoutred thus, from native heights he springs,

    And lights on earth; removes his cap; his wings

    Unlooses; and his wand alone retains:

    Through devious paths with this, a shepherd now,

    A flock he drives of goats, and tunes his pipe

    Of reeds constructed. Argus hears the sound,

    Junonian guard, and captivated cries,—

    "Come, stranger, sit with me upon this mount:

    "Nor for thy flock more fertile pasture grows,

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