Here, while the Thracian bard’s enchanting strain
Soothes beasts, and woods, and all the listening plain,
The female Bacchanals, devoutly mad,
In shaggy skins, like savage creatures, clad,
Warbling in air, perceived his lovely lay,
And from a rising ground beheld him play;
When one, the wildest, with dishevell’d hair,
That loosely stream’d and ruffled in the air,
Soon as her frantic eye the lyrist spied,
“See, see, the hater of our sex,” she cried;
Then at his face her missive javelin sent,
Which wizz’d along, and brush’d him as it went;
But the soft wreaths of ivy twisted round
Prevent a deep impression of the wound.
Another, for a weapon, hurls a stone,
Which, by the sound subdued as soon as thrown,
Falls at his feet, and, with a seeming sense,
Implores his pardon for its late offence.

But now their frantic rage unbounded grows,
Turns all to madness, and no measure knows:
Yet this the charms of music might subdue;
But that, with all its charms, is conquer’d too:
In louder strains their hideous yellings rise,
And squeaking hornpipes echo through the skies,
Which, in hoarse concert with the drum, confound
The moving lyre, and every gentle sound:
Then ’twas the deafen’d stones flew on with speed,
And saw, unsoothed, their tuneful poet bleed.
The birds, the beasts, and all the savage crew
Which the sweet lyrist to attention drew,
Now by the female mob’s more furious rage
Are driven, and forced to quit the shady stage.
Next their fierce hands the bard himself assail,
Nor can his song against their wrath prevail:
They flock like birds, when, in a clustering flight,
By day they chase the boding fowl of night:
So crowded amphitheatres survey
The stag, to greedy dogs a future prey.
Their steely javelins, which soft curls entwine
Of budding tendrils from the leafy vine,
For sacred rites of mild religion made,
Are flung promiscuous at the poet’s head.
Those, clods of earth or flints discharge; and these
Hurl prickly branches, sliver’d from the trees
And lest their passion should be unsupplied,
The rabble crew, by chance, at distance spied
Where oxen, straining at the heavy yoke,
The fallow’d field with slow advances broke;
Nigh which the brawny peasants dug the soil,
Procuring food with long laborious toil:
These, when they saw the ranting throng draw near
Quitted their tools, and fled, possess’d with fear.
Long spades, and rakes of mighty size, were found,
Carelessly left upon the broken ground:
With these the furious lunatics engage⁠—
And first the labouring oxen feel their rage;
Then to the poet they return with speed,
Whose fate was, past prevention, now decreed:
In vain he lifts his suppliant hands, in vain
He tries, before, his never-failing strain:
And from those sacred lips, whose thrilling sound
Fierce tigers and insensate rocks could wound.
Ah, gods! how moving was the mournful sight!
To see the fleeting soul now take its flight.
Thee the soft warblers of the feather’d kind
Bewail’d; for thee thy savage audience pined;
Those rocks and woods that oft thy strain had led,
Mourn for their charmer, and lament him dead;
And drooping trees their leafy glories shed:
Naiads and Dryads, with dishevell’d hair,
Promiscuous weep, and scarfs of sable wear;
Nor could the river gods conceal their moan,
But with new floods of tears augment their own.
His mangled limbs lay scatter’d all around;
His head and harp a better fortune found⁠—
In Hebrus’ streams they gently roll’d along,
And soothed the waters with a mournful song:
Soft deadly notes the lifeless tongue inspire;
A doleful tune sounds from the floating lyre:
The hollow banks in solemn concert mourn,
And the sad strain in echoing groans return:
Now with the current to the sea they glide,
Borne by the billows of the briny tide,
And driven where waves round rocky Lesbos roar,
They strand, and lodge upon Methymna’s shore.

But here, when landed on the foreign soil,
A venom’d snake, the product of the isle,
Attempts the head, and sacred locks, imbrued
With clotted gore and still fresh-dropping blood.
Phoebus at last his kind protection gives,
And from the fact the greedy monster drives;
Whose marbled jaws his impious crime atone⁠—
Still grinning ghastly, though transform’d to stone.

His ghost flies downward to the Stygian shore,
And knows the places it had seen before:
Among the shadows of the pious train
He finds Eurydice, and loves again;
With pleasure views the beauteous phantom’s charms,
And clasps her in his unsubstantial arms:
There side by side they unmolested walk,
Or pass their blissful hours in pleasing talk;
Aft or before the bard securely goes,
And without danger can review his spouse.

Bacchus, resolving to revenge the wrong,
Of Orpheus murder’d, on the madding throng,
Decreed that each accomplice dame should stand,
Fix’d by the roots, along the conscious land.
Their wicked feet, that late so nimbly ran
To wreak their malice on the guiltless man,
Sudden with twisted ligatures were bound,
Like trees, deep planted in the turfy ground:
And as the fowler, with his subtle gins,
His feather’d captives by the feet entwines,
That fluttering pant, and struggle to get loose,
Yet only closer draw the fatal noose;
So these were caught; and, as they strove in vain
To quit the place, they but increased their pain.
They flounce and toil, yet find themselves controll’d;
The root, though pliant, toughly keeps its hold.
In vain their toes and feet they look to find,
For even their shapely legs are clothed with rind.
One smites her thighs with a lamenting stroke,
And finds the flesh transform’d to solid oak;
Another, with surprise and grief distress’d,
Lays on above, but beats a wooden breast.
A rugged bark their softer neck invades;
Their branching arms shoot up delightful shades:
At once they seem and are a real grove,
With mossy trunks below, and verdant leaves above.

Nor this sufficed; the god’s disgust remains,
And he resolves to quit their hated plains:
The vineyards of Tymole engross his care,
And with a better choir he fixes there;
Where the smooth streams of clear Pactolus roll’d,
Then undistinguish’d for its sands of gold.
The satyrs with the nymphs, his usual throng,
Come to salute their god, and jovial dance along:
Silenus only miss’d; for while he reel’d,
Feeble with age and wine, about the field,
The hoary drunkard had forgot his way,
And to the Phrygian clowns became a prey;
Who to King Midas drag the captive god,
While on his totty pate the wreaths of ivy nod.

Midas from Orpheus had been taught his lore,
And knew the rites of Bacchus long before:
He, when he saw his venerable guest,
In honour of the god ordain’d a feast.
Ten days in course, with each continued night,
Were spent in genial mirth and brisk delight;
Then on the eleventh, when, with brighter ray,
Phosphor had chased the fading stars away,
The king through Lydia’s fields young Bacchus sought,
And to the god his foster-father brought.
Pleased with the welcome sight, he bids him soon
But name his wish, and swears to grant the boon.
A glorious offer! yet but ill bestow’d
On him whose choice so little judgment show’d.
“Give me,” says he, (nor thought he ask’d too much,)
“That with my body whatsoe’er I touch,
Changed from the nature which it held of old,
May be converted into yellow gold.”
He had his wish: but yet the god repined,
To think the fool no better wish could find.

But the brave king departed from the place
With smiles of gladness sparkling in his face;
Nor could contain, but, as he took his way,
Impatient longs to make the first essay.
Down from a lowly branch a twig he drew,
The twig straight glitter’d with a golden hue.
He takes a stone, the stone was turn’d to gold:
A clod he touches, and the crumbling mould
Acknowledged soon the great transforming power,
In weight and substance like a mass of ore:
He pluck’d the corn, and straight his grasp appears
Fill’d with a bending tuft of golden ears.
An apple next he takes, and seems to hold
The bright Hesperian vegetable gold:
His hand he careless on a pillar lays,
With shining gold the fluted pillars blaze;
And, while he washes, as the servants pour,
His touch converts the stream to Dane’s shower.

To see these miracles so finely wrought
Fires with transporting joy his giddy thought.
The ready slaves prepare a sumptuous board,
Spread with rich dainties for their happy lord;
Whose powerful hands the bread no sooner hold,
But its whole substance is transform’d to gold:
Up to his mouth he lifts the savoury meat,
Which turns to gold as he attempts to eat:
His patron’s noble juice of purple hue,
Touch’d by his lips, a gilded cordial grew,
Unfit for drink; and, wondrous to behold,
It trickles from his jaws a fluid gold.

The rich poor fool, confounded with surprise,
Starving in all his various plenty lies;
Sick of his wish, he now detests the power,
For which he ask’d so earnestly before;
Amid his gold with pinching famine cursed,
And justly tortured with an equal thirst:
At last, his shining arms to heaven he rears,
And, in distress, for refuge flies to prayers.
“Oh, Father Bacchus, I have sinn’d,” he cried,
“And foolishly thy gracious gift applied;
Thy pity now, repenting, I implore,
Oh may I feel the golden plague no more!”

The hungry wretch, his folly thus confess’d,
Touch’d the kind deity’s good-natured breast;
The gentle god annull’d his first decree,
And from the cruel compact set him free.
But then, to cleanse him quite from further harm,
And to dilute the relics of the charm,
He bids him seek the stream, that cuts the land
Nigh where the towers of Lydias Sardis stand;
Then trace the river to the fountain head
And meet it rising from its rocky bed;
There, as the bubbling tide pours forth amain,
To plunge his body in, and wash away the stain.
The king, instructed, to the fount retires,
But with the golden charm the stream inspires;
For, while this quality the man forsakes,
An equal power the limpid water takes;
Informs with veins of gold the neighbouring land,
And glides along a bed of golden sand.

Now loathing wealth, the occasion of his woes,
Far in the woods, he sought a calm repose
In caves and grottoes, where the nymphs resort,
And keep with mountain Pan their sylvan court.
Ah! had he left his stupid soul behind;
But his condition alter’d not his mind.

For where high Tmolus rears his shady brow,
And from his cliffs surveys the seas below
In his descent, by Sardis bounded here,
By the small confines of Hypaepa there,
Pan to the nymphs his frolic ditties play’d,
Tuning his reeds beneath the checker’d shade.
The nymphs are pleased, the boasting sylvan plays,
And speaks with slight of great Apollo’s lays.
Tmolus was arbiter; the boaster still
Accepts the trial with unequal skill.
The venerable judge was seated high
On his own hill, that seem’d to touch the sky.
Above the whispering trees his head he rears,
From their encumbering boughs to free his ears;
A wreath of oak alone his temples bound,
The pendant acorns loosely dangled round.
“In me, your judge,” says he, “there’s no delay;”
Then bids the goatherd god begin and play.
Pan tuned his pipe, and with his rural song
Pleased the low taste of all the vulgar throng.
Such songs a vulgar judgment mostly please,
Midas was there, and Midas judged with these.

The mountain sire, with grave deportment, now
To Phoebus turns his venerable brow;
And, as he turns, with him the listening wood
In the same posture of attention stood.
The god his own Parnassian laurel crown’d,
And in a wreath his golden tresses bound;
Graceful his purple mantle swept the ground.
High on the left his ivory lute he raised;
The lute, emboss’d with glittering jewels, blazed;
In his right hand he nicely held the quill,
His easy posture spoke a master’s skill;
The strings he touch’d with more than human art,
Which pleased the judge’s ear, and soothed his heart;
Who soon judiciously the palm decreed,
And to the lute postponed the squeaking reed.

All, with applause, the rightful sentence heard,
Midas alone dissatisfied appear’d;
To him unjustly given the judgment seems,
For Pan’s barbaric notes he most esteems.
The lyric god, who thought his untuned ear
Deserved but ill a human form to wear,
Of that deprives him, and supplies the place
With some more fit, and of an ampler space,
Fix’d on his noddle an unseemly pair,
Flagging, and large, and full of whitish hair;
Without a total change from what he was,
Still in the man preserves the simple ass.

He, to conceal the scandal of the deed,
A purple turban folds about his head,
Veils the reproach from public view, and fears
The laughing world would spy his monstrous ears.
One trusty barber slave, that used to dress
His master’s hair, when lengthen’d to excess,
The mighty secret knew, but knew alone,
And, though impatient, durst not make it known.
Restless, at last a private place he found,
Then dug a hole, and told it to the ground;
In a low whisper he reveal’d the case,
And cover’d in the earth, and silent left the place.

In time, of trembling reeds a plenteous crop
From the confided furrow sprouted up,
Which, high advancing with the ripening year,
Made known the tiller, and his fruitless care;
For then the rustling blades and whispering wind
To tell the important secret both combined.

Phoebus, with full revenge, from Tmolus flies,
Darts through the air, and cleaves the liquid skies;
Near Hellespont he lights, and treads the plains
Where great Laomedon sole monarch reigns;
Where, built between the two projecting strands,
To Panomphaean Jove an altar stands;
Here first aspiring thoughts the king employ
To found the lofty towers of future Troy.
The work, from schemes magnificent begun,
At vast expense, was slowly carried on;
Which Phoebus seeing, with the trident god,
Who rules the swelling surges with his nod,
Assuming each a mortal shape, combine,
At a set price, to finish his design.
The work was built, the king their price denies,
And his injustice backs with perjuries:
This Neptune could not brook, but drove the main,
A mighty deluge, o’er the Phrygian plain;
’Twas all a sea, the waters of the deep
From every vale the copious harvest sweep;
The briny billows overflow the soil,
Ravage the fields, and mock the ploughman’s toil.

Nor this appeased the god’s revengeful mind,
For still a greater plague remains behind;
A huge sea monster lodges on the sands,
And the king’s daughter for his prey demands.
To him, that saved the, damsel, was decreed
A set of horses of the sun’s fine breed;
But, when Alcides from the rock untied
The trembling fair, the ransom was denied.
He, in revenge, the new-built walls attack’d,
And the twice-perjured city bravely sack’d.
Telamon aided; and, in justice, shared
Part of the plunder as his due reward:
The princess, rescued late, with all her charms,
Hesione, was yielded to his arms:
For Peleus, with a goddess bride, was more
Proud of his spouse than of his birth before;
Grandsons to Jove there might be more than one,
But he the goddess had beloved alone.

For Proteus thus to virgin Thetis said:
“Fair goddess of the waves, consent to wed,
And take some sprightly lover to your bed:
A son you’ll have, the terror of the field,
To whom, in fame and power, his sire shall yield.”

Jove, who adored the nymph with boundless love,
Did from his breast the dangerous flame remove;
He knew the fates, nor cared to raise up one
Whose fame and greatness should eclipse his own.
On happy Peleus he bestow’d her charms,
And bless’d his grandson in the goddess’ arms.

A silent creek Thessalia’s coast can show,
Two arms project, and shape it like a bow;
’Twould make a bay, but the transparent tide
Does scarce the yellow-gravell’d bottom hide;
For the quick eye may through the liquid wave
A firm, unweedy, level beach perceive:
A grove of fragrant myrtle near it grows,
Whose boughs, though thick, a beauteous grot disclose;
The well-wrought fabric, to discerning eyes,
Rather by art than nature seems to rise.
A bridled dolphin oft fair Thetis bore
To this her loved retreat, her favourite shore;
Here Peleus seized her, slumbering while she lay,
And urged his suit with all that love could say.
The nymph, o’erpower’d, to art for succour flies,
And various shapes the eager youth surprise;
A bird she seems, but plies her wings in vain,
His hands the fleeting substance still detain;
A branchy tree high in the air she grew,
About its bark his nimble arms he threw;
A tiger next, she glares with flaming eyes,
The frighten’d lover quits his hold, and flies
The sea gods he with sacred rites adores,
Then a libation on the ocean pours;
While the fat entrails crackle in the fire,
And sheets of smoke, in sweet perfume, aspire;
Till Proteus, rising from his oozy bed,
Thus to the poor desponding lover said:
“No more in anxious thoughts your mind employ,
For yet you shall possess the dear expected joy.
You must, once more, the unwary nymph surprise,
As coolly in her grot she slumbering lies;
Then bind her fast with unrelenting hands,
And strain her tender limbs with knotted bands;
Still hold her under every different shape,
Till, tired she tries no longer to escape.”
Thus he, then sunk beneath the glassy flood,
And broken accents flutter’d where he stood.

Bright Sol had almost now his journey done,
And down the steepy western convex run,
When the fair Nereid left the briny wave,
And, as she used, retreated to her cave.
He scarce had bound her fast, when she arose,
And into various shapes her body throws;
She went to move her arms, and found them tied,
Then, with a sigh, “Some god assists ye,” cried,
And in her proper shape stood blushing by his side.
About her waist his longing arms he flung,
From which alliance great Achilles sprung.

Peleus unmix’d felicity enjoy’d,
(Bless’d in a valiant son and virtuous bride,)
Till fortune did in blood his hands imbrue,
And his own brother, by cursed chance, he slew:
Then driven from Thessaly, his native clime,
Trachinia first gave shelter to his crime,
Where peaceful Ceyx mildly fill’d the throne,
And like his sire, the morning’ planet, shone;
But now, unlike himself, bedew’d with tears,
Mourning a brother lost, his brow appears:
First to the town, with travel spent and care,
Peleus, and his small company, repair;
His herds and flocks the while at leisure feed
On the rich pasture of a neighbouring mead.
The prince before the royal presence brought,
Show’d, by the suppliant olive, what he sought;
Then tells his name, and race, and country, right,
But hides the unhappy reason of his flight.
He begs the king some little town to give,
Where they may safe his faithful vassals live.
Ceyx replied, “To all my bounty flows,
A hospitable realm your suit has chose.
Your glorious race, and far-resounding fame,
And grandsire Jove, peculiar favours claim;
All you can wish I grant; entreaties spare;
My kingdom (would ’twere worth the sharing) share.”

Tears stopp’d his speech: astonish’d Peleus pleads
To know the cause from whence his grief proceeds.
The prince replied, “There’s none of ye but deems
This hawk was ever such as now it seems;
Know ’twas a hero once, Daedalion named,
For warlike deeds, and haughty valour, famed;
Like me, to that bright luminary born,
Who wakes Aurora, and brings on the morn.
His fierceness still remains, and love of blood,
Now dread of birds and tyrant of the wood:
My make was softer, peace my greatest care;
But this, my brother, wholly bent on war;
Late, nations fear’d, and routed armies fled,
That force, which now the timorous pigeons dread.
A daughter he possess’d, divinely fair,
And scarcely yet had seen her fifteenth year,
Young Chione. A thousand rivals strove
To win the maid, and teach her how to love.
Phoebus and Mercury, by chance, one day,
From Delphi and Cyllene pass’d this way;
Together they the virgin saw: desire
At once warm’d both their breasts with am’rous fire.
Her time complete nine circling moons had run,
To either god she bore a lovely son;
To Mercury Autolycus she brought,
Who turn’d to thefts and tricks his subtle thought:
Possess’d he was of all his father’s slight,
At will made white look black, and black look white.
Philammon born to Phoebus, like his sire,
The muses loved, and finely struck the lyre,
And made his voice and touch in harmony conspire.
In vain, fond maid, you boast this double birth,
The love of gods, and royal father’s worth,
And Jove among your ancestors rehearse!
Could blessings such as these e’er prove a curse?
To her they did, who with audacious pride,
Vain of her own, Diana’s charms decried.
Her taunts the goddess with resentment fill,
‘My face you like not, you shall try my skill.’
She said, and straight her vengeful bow she strung,
And sent a shaft, that pierced her guilty tongue.
The bleeding tongue in vain its accents tries,
In the red stream her soul reluctant flies.
With sorrow wild I ran to her relief,
And tried to moderate my brother’s grief;
He, deaf as rocks by stormy surges beat,
Loudly laments, and hears me not entreat.
When on the funeral pile he saw her laid,
Thrice he to rush into the flames essay’d,
Thrice with officious care by us was stay’d.
Now, mad with grief, away he fled amain,
Like a stung heifer, that resents the pain,
And, bellowing loudly, bounds along the plain.
O’er the most rugged ways so fast he ran,
He seem’d a bird already, not a man;
He left us breathless all behind, and now,
In quest of death, had gain’d Parnassus’ brow;
But when from thence headlong himself he threw,
He fell not, but with airy pinions flew.
Phoebus in pity changed him to a fowl,
Whose crooked beak and claws the birds control,
Little of bulk, but of a warlike soul.
A hawk become, the feather’d race’s foe,
He tries to ease his own, by others’ wo.”

While they astonish’d heard the king relate
These wonders of his hapless brother’s fate,
The prince’s herdsman at the court arrives,
And fresh surprise to all the audience gives.
“Oh Peleus! Peleus! dreadful news I bear,”
He said, and trembled as he spoke for fear.
The worst affrighted Peleus bid him tell,
While Ceyx too grew pale with friendly zeal.
Thus he began: “When Sol mid-heaven had gain’d,
And half his way was pass’d, and half remain’d,
I to the level shore my cattle drove,
And let them freely in the meadows rove.
Some stretch’d at length, admire the watery plain,
Some cropp’d the herb, some wanton swam the main
A temple stands of antique make hard by,
Where no gilt domes, or marble, lure the eye.
Unpolish’d rafters bear its lowly height,
Hid by a grove, as ancient, from the sight.
Here Nereus, and the Nereids they adore:
I learn’d it from the man who thither bore
His net to dry it on the sunny shore.
Adjoins a lake, enclosed with willows round,
Where swelling waves have overflow’d the mound,
And muddy, stagnate, on the lower ground,
From thence a rustling noise, increasing, flies,
Strikes the still shore, and frights us with surprise;
Straight a huge wolf rush’d from the marshy wood,
His jaws besmear’d with mingled foam and blood,
Though equally by hunger urged, and rage,
His appetite he minds not to assuage;
Naught that he meets his rapid fury spares,
But the whole herd with mad disorder tears.
Some of our men, who strove to drive him thence,
Torn by his teeth, have died in their defence;
The echoing lakes, the sea, and fields, and shore,
Impurpled blush with streams of reeking gore:
Delay is loss, nor have we time for thought,
While yet some few remain alive, we ought
To seize our arms, and, with confederate force,
Try if we so can stop his bloody course.”
But Peleus cared not for his ruin’d herd,
His crime he call’d to mind, and thence inferr’d
That Psamathe’s revenge this havoc made,
In sacrifice to murder’d Phocus’ shade.
The king commands his servants to their arms,
Resolved to go, but the loud noise alarms
His lovely queen, who from her chamber flew,
And her half-platted hair behind her threw,
About his neck she hung with loving fears,
And now with words, and now with pleading tears,
Entreated that he’d send his men alone,
And stay himself, to save two lives in one.
Then Peleus: “Your just fears, oh queen, forget,
Too much the offer leaves me in your debt:
No arms against the monster I shall bear,
But the sea nymphs appease with humble prayer.”

The citadel’s high turrets pierce the sky,
Which home-bound vessels glad, from far descry;
This they ascend, and thence with sorrow ken
The mangled heifers lie, and bleeding men;
The inexorable ravager they view,
With blood discolour’d, still the rest pursue:
There, Peleus pray’d submissive towards the sea,
And deprecates the ire of injured Psamathe.
But deaf to all his prayers the nymph remain’d,
Till Thetis for her spouse the boon obtain’d.
Pleased with the luxury, the furious beast,
Unstopp’d, continues still his bloody feast:
While yet upon a sturdy bull he flew,
Changed by the nymph, a marble block he grew.
No longer dreadful now the wolf appears,
Buried in stone, and vanish’d like their fears.
Yet still the fates unhappy Peleus vex’d,
To the Magnesian shore he wanders next.
Acastus there, who ruled the peaceful clime,
Grants his request, and expiates his crime.

These prodigies affect the pious prince:
But more perplex’d with those that happen’d since,
He purposes to seek the Clarian god,
Avoiding Delphi, his more famed abode.
Since Phrygian robbers made unsafe the road:
Yet could he not, from her he loved so well,
The fatal voyage he resolved, conceal.
But when she saw her lord prepared to part,
A deadly cold ran shivering to her heart,
Her faded cheeks are changed to boxen hue,
And in her eyes the tears are ever new.
She thrice essay’d to speak, her accents hung,
And, faltering, died unfinish’d on her tongue,
Or vanish’d into sighs: with long delay
Her voice return’d, and found the wonted way.

“Tell me, my lord,” she said, “what fault unknown
Thy once beloved Alcyone has done?
Whither, ah! whither is thy kindness gone?
Can Ceyx, then, sustain to leave his wife,
And, unconcern’d, forsake the sweets of life?
What can thy mind to this long journey move?
Or need’st thou absence to renew thy love?
Yet, if thou goest by land, though grief possess
My soul, ev’n then my fears will be the less.
But, ah! be warn’d to shun the watery way,
The face is frightful of the stormy sea;
For late I saw adrift disjointed planks,
And empty tombs erected on the banks.
Nor let false hopes to trust betray thy mind,
Because my sire in caves constrains the wind,
Can with a breath their clam’rous rage appease,
They fear his whistle, and forsake the seas:
Not so: for, once indulged, they sweep the main,
Deaf to the call, or, hearing, hear in vain;
But bent on mischief bear the waves before,
And not content with seas, insult the shore,
When ocean, air, and earth at once engage,
And rooted forests fly before their rage:
At once the clashing clouds to battle move,
And lightnings rim across the fields above:
I know them well, and mark’d their rude comport,
While yet a child within my father’s court:
In times of tempest they command alone:
And he but sits precarious on the throne:
The more I know, the more my fears augment;
And fears are oft prophetic of the event;
But if not fears, or reasons will prevail,
If fate has fix’d thee obstinate to sail,
Go not without thy wife, but let me bear
My part of danger with an equal share,
And present, what I suffer only fear;
Then o’er the bounding billows shall we fly,
Secure to live together, or to die.”

These reasons moved her starlike husband’s heart,
But still he held his purpose to depart;
For as he loved her equal to his life,
He would not to the seas expose his wife;
Nor could be wrought his voyage to refrain,
But sought by arguments to soothe her pain;
Nor these avail’d; at length he lights on one,
With which so difficult a case he won:
“My love, so short an absence cease to fear,
For by my father’s holy flame I swear,
Before two moons their orb with light adorn,
If Heaven allow me life, I will return.”

This promise of so short a stay prevails;
He soon equips the ships, supplies the sails,
And gives the word to launch; she trembling views
This pomp of death, and parting tears renews;
Last with a kiss, she took a long farewell,
Sigh’d with a sad presage, and swooning fell:
While Ceyx seeks delays, the lusty crew,
Raised on their banks, their oars in order drew
To their broad breasts, the ship with fury flew.

The queen recover’d, rears her humid eyes,
And first her husband on the poop espies,
Shaking his hand at distance on the main;
She took the sign, and shook her hand again:
Still as the ground recedes, contracts her view
With sharpen’d sight, till she no longer knew
The much-loved face; that comfort lost supplies
With less, and with the galley feeds her eyes;
The galley borne from view by rising gales,
She follow’d with her sight the flying sails;
When ev’n the flying sails were seen no more,
Forsaken of all sight she left the shore.

Then on her bridal bed her body throws
And sought in sleep her wearied eyes to close;
Her husband’s pillow, and the widow’d part
Which once he press’d, renew’d the former smart.

And now a breeze from shore began to blow,
The sailors ship their oars, and cease to row,
Then hoist their yards a-trip, and all their sails
Let fall, to court the wind, and catch the gales.
By this the vessel half her course had run,
And as much rested till the rising sun;
Both shores were lost to sight, when at the close
Of day a stiffer gale at east arose:
The sea grew white, the rolling waves from far,
Like heralds, first denounce the watery war.

This seen, the master soon began to cry:
“Strike, strike the topsail, let the mainsheet fly,
And furl your sails:” the winds repel the sound,
And in the speaker’s mouth the speech is drown’d.
Yet of their own accord, as danger taught
Each in his way, officiously they wrought;
Some stow their oars, or stop the leaky sides;
Another bolder, yet the yard bestrides,
And folds the sails; a fourth with labour laves
The intruding seas, and waves ejects on waves.

In this confusion, while their work they ply,
The winds augment the winter of the sky,
And wage intestine wars, the suffering seas
Are toss’d, and mingled, as their tyrants please.
The master would command, but, in despair
Of safety, stands amazed with stupid care;
Nor what to bid, or what forbid he knows,
The ungovern’d tempest to such fury grows:
Vain is his force, and vainer is his skill,
With such a concourse comes the flood of ill;
The cries of men are mix’d with rattling shrouds,
Seas dash on seas, and clouds encounter clouds;
At once from east to west, from pole to pole,
The forky lightnings flash, the roaring thunders roll.

Now waves on waves ascending scale the skies,
And in the fires above the water fries;
When yellow sands are sifted from below,
The glittering billows give a golden show;
And when the fouler bottom spews the black,
The Stygian die the tainted waters take;
Then frothy white appear the flatted seas,
And change their colour, changing their disease.
Like various fits the Trachin vessel finds;
And now sublime, she rides upon the winds;
As from a lofty summit looks from high,
And from the clouds beholds the nether sky;
Now from the depth of hell they lift their sight,
And at a distance see superior light;
The lashing billows make a loud report,
And beat her sides, as battering rams a fort;
Or as a lion bounding in his way,
With force augmented, bears against his prey,
Sidelong to seize, or unappall’d with fear,
Springs on the toils, and rushes on the spear;
So seas impell’d by winds, with added power
Assault the sides, and o’er the hatches tower.

The planks (their pitchy covering wash’d away)
Now yield, and now a yawning breach display;
The roaring waters with a hostile tide
Rush through the ruins of her gaping side
Meantime in sheets of rain the sky descends,
And ocean swell’d with waters upward tends;
One rising, falling one, the heavens and sea
Meet at their confines, in the middle way:
The sails are drunk with showers, and drop with rain;
Sweet waters mingle with the briny main;
No star appears to lend his friendly light;
Darkness and tempest make a double night;
But flashing fires disclose the deep by turns,
And while the lightnings blaze, the water burns.

Now all the waves their scatter’d force unite,
And, as a soldier foremost in the fight,
Make way for others, and a host alone
Still presses on, and urging gains the town;
So, while the invading billows come abreast,
The hero tenth advanced before the rest,
Sweeps all before him with impetuous sway,
And from the walls descends upon the prey;
Part following enter, part remain without,
With envy hear their fellows’ conquering shout,
And mount on others’ backs, in hopes to share
The city, thus become the seat of war.

A universal cry resounds aloud,
The sailors run in heaps, a helpless crowd;
Art fails, and courage fails, no succour near;
As many waves, as many deaths appear:
One weeps, and yet despairs of late relief;
One cannot weep, his fears congeal his grief,
But, stupid, with dry eyes expects his fate;
One with loud shrieks laments his lost estate,
And calls those happy, whom their funerals wait:
This wretch with prayers and vows the gods implores,
And ev’n the skies he cannot see, adores:
That other, on his friends his thoughts bestows,
His careful father, and his faithful spouse;
The covetous worldling, in his anxious mind,
Thinks only on the wealth he left behind.

All Ceyx his Alcyone employs,
For her he grieves, yet in her absence joys;
His wife he wishes, and would still be near,
Not her with him, but wishes him with her:
Now with last looks he seeks his native shore,
Which fate has destined him to see no more;
He sought, but, in the dark tempestuous night,
He knew not whither to direct his sight;
So whirl the seas, such darkness blinds the sky,
That the black night receives a deeper dye.

The giddy ship ran round, the tempest tore
Her mast, and overboard the rudder bore;
One billow mounts, and with a scornful brow,
Proud of her conquest gain’d, insults the waves below;
Nor lighter falls, than if some giant tore
Pindus and Athos with the freight they bore,
And toss’d on seas, press’d with the ponderous blow,
Down sinks the ship within the abyss below;
Down with the vessel sink into the main
The many, never more to rise again.
Some few on scatter’d planks, with fruitless care,
Lay hold, and swim, but while they swim despair.

Ev’n he who late a sceptre did command,
Now grasps a floating fragment in his hand;
And while he struggles on the stormy main,
Invokes his father, and his wife’s, in vain.
But yet his consort is his greatest care,
Alcyone he names amid his prayer;
Names as a charm against the waves and wind;
Most in his mouth, and ever in his mind.
Tired with his toil, all hopes of safety pass’d,
From pray’rs to wishes he descends at last,
That his dead body, wafted to the sands,
Might have its burial from her friendly hands.
As oft as he can catch a gulp of air,
And peep above the seas, he names the fair;
And ev’n when plunged beneath, on her he raves,
Murmuring Alcyone below the waves:
At last a falling billow stops, his breath,
Breaks o’er his head, and whelms him underneath.
Bright Lucifer unlike himself appears
That night, his heavenly form obscured with tears,
And since he was forbid to leave the skies,
He muffled with a cloud his mournful eyes.

Meantime Alcyone (his fate unknown)
Computes how many nights he had been gone:
Observes the waning moon with hourly view,
Numbers her age, and wishes for a new;
Against the promised time provides with care,
And hastens in the woof the robes he was to wear;
And for herself employs another loom,
New dress’d to meet her lord returning home,
Flattering her heart with joys that never were to come:
She fumed the temples with an odorous flame,
And oft before the sacred altars came,
To pray for him, who was an empty name.
All powers implored, but far above the rest
To Juno she her pious vows address’d,
Her much-loved lord from perils to protect,
And safe o’er seas his voyage to direct:
Then pray’d, that she might still possess his heart,
And no pretending rival share a part.
This last petition heard of all her prayer,
The rest, dispersed by winds, were lost in air.

But she, the goddess of the nuptial bed,
Tired with her vain devotions for the dead,
Resolved the tainted hand should be repell’d,
Which incense offer’d, and her altar held.
Then Iris thus bespoke: “Thou faithful maid,
By whom thy queen’s commands are well convey’d,
Haste to the house of sleep, and bid the god,
Who rules the night by visions with a nod,
Prepare a dream, in figure and in form
Resembling him who perish’d in the storm:
This form before Alcyone present,
To make her certain of the sad event.”

Indued with robes of various hue, she flies,
And flying draws an arch, (a segment of the skies,)
Then leaves her bending bow, and from the steep
Descends, to search the silent house of sleep.

Near the Cimmerians, in his dark abode,
Deep in a cavern dwells the drowsy god,
Whose gloomy mansion nor the rising sun,
Nor setting, visits, nor the lightsome noon:
But lazy vapours round the region fly,
Perpetual twilight, and a doubtful sky;
No crowing cock does there his wings display,
Nor with his horny bill provoke the day,
Nor watchful dogs, nor the more wakeful geese,
Disturb with nightly noise the sacred peace,
Nor beast of nature, nor the tame are nigh,
Nor trees with tempests rock’d, nor human cry,
But safe repose, without an air of breath,
Dwells here, and a dumb quiet next to death.

An arm of Lethe, with a gentle flow
Arising upward from the rock below,
The palace moats, and o’er the pebbles creeps,
And with soft murmurs calls the coming sleeps.
Around its entry nodding poppies grow,
And all cool simples that sweet rest bestow;
Night from the plants their sleepy virtue drains,
And, passing, sheds it on the silent plains.
No door there was, the unguarded house to keep,
On creaking hinges turn’d, to break his sleep.

But in the gloomy court was raised a bed,
Stuff’d with black plumes, and on an ebon ’sted;
Black was the covering too, where lay the god,
And slept supine, his limbs display’d abroad;
About his head fantastic visions fly,
Which various images of things supply,
And mock their forms, the leaves on trees not more,
Nor bearded ears in fields, nor sands upon the shore.

The virgin entering bright, indulged the day
To the brown cave, and brush’d the dreams away,
The god, disturb’d with this new glare of light,
Cast sudden on his face, unseal’d his sight,
And raised his tardy head, which sunk again,
And, sinking, on his bosom knock’d his chin;
At length shook off himself, and ask’d the dame
(And asking yawn’d) for what intent she came.

To whom the goddess thus: “Oh sacred rest,
Sweet pleasing sleep, of all the powers the best!
Oh peace of mind! repairer of decay!
Whose balms renew the limbs to labours of the day,
Care shuns thy soft approach, and sullen flies away!
Adorn a dream, expressing human form,
The shape of him who suffer’d in the storm,
And send it flitting to the Trachin court,
The wreck of wretched Ceyx to report;
Before his queen bid the pale spectre stand,
Who begs a vain relief at Juno’s hand.”
She said, and scarce awake her eyes could keep,
Unable to support the fumes of sleep,
But fled, returning by the way she went,
And swerved along her bow with swift ascent.

The god, uneasy till he slept again,
Resolved at once to rid himself of pain;
And, though against his custom, call’d aloud,
Exciting Morpheus from the sleepy crowd;
Morpheus, of all his numerous train, express’d
The shape of man, and imitated best;
The walk, the words, the gesture, could supply,
The habit mimic, and the mien bely;
Plays well, but all his action is confined,
Extending not beyond our humankind.
Another, birds, and beasts, and dragons apes,
And dreadful images, and monster shapes;
This demon, Icelos, in heaven’s high hall,
The gods have named, but men Phobetor call.
A third is Phantasus, whose actions roll
On meaner thoughts, and things devoid of soul;
Earth, fruits, and flowers, he represents in dreams,
And solid rocks unmoved, and running streams.
These three to kings and chiefs their scenes display,
The rest before the ignoble commons play.
Of these the chosen Morpheus is despatch’d,
Which done, the lazy monarch, overwatch’d,
Down from his propping elbow drops his head,
Dissolved in sleep, and shrinks within his bed.

Darkling the demon glides, for flight prepared,
So soft, that scarce his fanning wings are heard.
To Trachin, swift as thought, the flitting shade
Through air his momentary journey made;
Then lays aside the steerage of his wings,
Forsakes his proper form, assumes the king’s;
And, pale as death, despoil’d of his array,
Into the queen’s apartment takes his way,
And stands before the bed at dawn of day:
Unmoved his eyes, and wet his beard appears,
And shedding vain, but seeming real, tears,
The briny waters dropping from his hairs;
Then, staring on her with a ghastly look,
And hollow voice, he thus the queen bespoke:

“Know’st thou not me? Not yet, unhappy wife?
Or are my features perish’d with my life?
Look once again, and for thy husband lost,
Lo! all that’s left of him, thy husband’s ghost!
Thy vows for my return were all in vain,
The stormy south o’ertook us in the main,
And never shalt thou see thy living lord again.
Bear witness Heaven, I call’d on thee in death,
And, while I call’d, a billow stopp’d my breath.
Think not that flying fame reports my fate,
I present, I appear, and my own wreck relate.
Rise, wretched widow, rise, nor undeplored
Permit my soul to pass the Stygian ford;
But rise, prepared in black, to mourn thy perish’d lord.”

Thus said the player god, and adding art
Of voice and gesture, so perform’d his part,
She thought (so like her love the shade appears)
That Ceyx spoke the words, and Ceyx shed the tears.
She groan’d, her inward soul with grief oppress’d,
She sigh’d, she wept, and, sleeping, beat her breast;
Then stretch’d her arms to embrace his body bare;
Her clasping arms enclose but empty air;
At this, not yet awake, she cried, “Oh stay!
One is our fate, and common is our way!”

So dreadful was the dream, so loud she spoke,
That, starting sudden up, the slumber broke,
Then cast her eyes around, in hope to view
Her vanish’d lord, and find the vision true;
For now the maids, who waited her commands,
Ran in with lighted tapers in their hands.
Tired with the search, not finding what she seeks,
With cruel blows she pounds her blubber’d cheeks;
Then from her beaten breast the linen tear,
And cut the golden caul that bound her hair.
Her nurse demands the cause: with louder cries
She prosecutes her griefs, and thus replies:

“No more Alcyone; she suffered death
With her lov’d lord, when Ceyx lost his breath:
No flattery, no false comfort, give me none,
My shipwreck’d Ceyx is for ever gone.
I saw, I saw him manifest in view,
His voice, his figure, and his gestures knew;
His lustre lost, and every living grace,
Yet I retain’d the features of his face;
Though with pale cheeks, wet beard, and dropping hair,
None but my Ceyx could appear so fair;
I would have strain’d him with a strict embrace,
But through my arms he slipp’d, and vanish’d from the place.
There, ev’n just there, he stood:” and, as she spoke,
Where last the spectre was she cast her look;
Fain would she hope, and gazed upon the ground,
If any printed footsteps might be found.

Then sigh’d, and said, “This I too well foreknew,
And my prophetic fears presaged too true:
’Twas what I begg’d, when with a bleeding heart
I took my leave, and suffer’d thee to part;
Or I to go along, or thou to stay,
Never, ah! never, to divide our way!
Happier for me, that all our hours assign’d
Together we had lived, ev’n not in death disjoin’d!
So had my Ceyx still been living here,
Or with my Ceyx I had perish’d there;
Now I die absent, in the vast profound,
And me, without myself, the seas have drown’d.
The storms were not so cruel: should I strive
To lengthen life, and such a grief survive;
But neither will I strive, nor wretched thee
In death forsake, but keep thee company:
If not one common sepulchre contains
Our bodies, or one urn our last remains,
Yet Ceyx and Alcyone shall join,
Their names remember’d in one common line.”

No further voice her mighty grief affords,
For sighs come rushing in between her words
And stopp’d her tongue; but what her tongue denied,
Soft tears, and groans, and dumb complaints supplied.

’Twas morning: to the port she takes her way,
And stands upon the margin of the sea;
That place, that very spot of ground, she sought,
Or thither by her destiny was brought,
Where last he stood; and while she sadly said:
“ ’Twas here he left me, lingering here delay’d
His parting kiss, and there his anchors weigh’d.”

Thus speaking, while her thoughts past actions trace,
And call to mind, admonish’d by the place,
Sharp at her utmost ken she cast her eyes,
And somewhat floating from afar descries:
It seem’d a corpse adrift to distant sight,
But at a distance who could judge aright?
It wafted nearer yet, and then she knew
That what before she but surmised was true:
A corpse it was, but whose it was unknown;
Yet moved, howe’er, she made the case her own,
Took the bad omen of a shipwreck’d man,
As for a stranger wept, and thus began:

“Poor wretch, on stormy seas to lose thy life:
Unhappy thou, but more thy widow’d wife!”
At this she paused, for now the flowing tide
Had brought the body nearer to the side.
The more she looks, the more her fears increase
At nearer sight, and she’s herself the less.
Now driven ashore, and at her feet it lies,
She knows too much in knowing whom she sees,
Her husband’s corpse; at this she loudly shrieks,
“ ’Tis he! ’tis he!” she cries, and tears her cheeks,
Her hair, and vest; and stooping to the sands,
About his neck she cast her trembling hands.

“And is it thus, oh dearer than my life!
Thus, thus return’st thou to thy longing wife?”
She said, and to the neighbouring mole she strode:
(Raised there to break the incursions of the flood:)
Headlong from hence to plunge herself she springs,
But shoots along, supported on her wings;
A bird new made, about the banks she plies,
Not far from shore, and short excursions tries;
Nor seeks in air her humble flight to raise,
Content to skim the surface of the seas.
Her bill, though slender, sends a creaking noise,
And imitates a lamentable voice.
Now lighting where the bloodless body lies,
She, with a funeral note, renews her cries:
At all her stretch, her little wings she spread,
And with her feather’d arms embraced the dead;
Then flickering to his pallid lips, she strove
To print a kiss, the last essay of love.
Whether the vital touch revived the dead,
Or that the moving waters raised his head
To meet the kiss, the vulgar doubt alone
For sure a present miracle was shown.
The gods their shapes to winter birds translate,
But both obnoxious to their former fate.
Their conjugal affection still is tied,
And still the mournful race is multiplied.
The raging Aeolus at length is kind,
Calms every storm, and hushes every wind;
Prepares his empire for his daughter’s ease,
And for his hatching nephews smoothes the seas.

These some old man sees wanton in the air,
And praises the unhappy constant pair;
Then to his friend the long-neck’d cormorant shows,
The former tale reviving others’ woes.
“That sable bird,” he cries, “which cuts the flood,
With slender legs, was once of royal blood,
His ancestors from mighty Tros proceed,
The brave Laomedon, and Ganymede,
(Whose beauty tempted Jove to steal the boy,)
And Priam, hapless prince! who fell with Troy:
Himself was Hector’s brother, and (had fate
But given this hopeful youth a longer date)
Perhaps had rivall’d warlike Hector’s worth,
Though on the mother’s side of meaner birth.
Fair Alyxothoe, a country maid,
Bare Aesacus, by stealth, in Ida’s shade.
He fled the noisy town, and pompous court,
Loved the lone hills and simple rural sport,
And seldom to the city would resort;
Yet he no rustic clownishness profess’d,
Nor was soft love a stranger to his breast;
The youth had long the nymph Hesperia woo’d,
Oft through the thicket, or the mead, pursued:
Her haply on her father’s bank he spied,
While fearless she her silver tresses dried;
Away she fled; not stags with half such speed,
Before the prowling wolf, scud o’er the mead;
Not ducks, when they the safer flood forsake,
Pursued by hawks, so swift regain the lake;
As fast he follow’d in the hot career,
Desire the lover wing’d, the virgin fear,
A snake unseen now pierced her heedless foot,
Quick through the veins the venom’d juices shoot;
She fell, and ’scaped by death his fierce pursuit.
Her lifeless body, frighted, he embraced,
And cried, ‘Not this I dreaded, but thy haste;
Oh! had my love been less, or less thy fear:
The victory, thus bought, is far too dear.
Accursed snake! yet I more cursed than he:
He gave the wound; the cause was given by me.
Yet none shall say, that unrevenged you died.’
He spoke; then climb’d a cliff’s o’erhanging side,
And, resolute, leap’d on the foaming tide.
Tethys received him gently on the wave,
The death he sought denied, and feathers gave.
Debarr’d the surest remedy of grief,
And forced to live, he cursed th’ unask’d relief,
Then on his airy pinions upward flies,
And at a second fall successless tries:
The downy plume a quick descent denies.
Enraged, he often dives beneath the wave,
And there in vain expects to find a grave.
His ceaseless sorrow for the unhappy maid
Meager’d his look, and on his spirits prey’d.
Still near the sounding deep he lives: his name
From frequent diving and emerging came.”