Pallas, attending to the muse’s song,
Approved the just resentment of their wrong,
And thus reflects: “While tamely I commend
Those who their injured deities defend,
My own divinity affronted stands,
And calls aloud for justice at my hands;”
Then takes the hint, ashamed to lag behind,
And on Arachne bends her vengeful mind;
One at the loom so excellently skill’d,
That to the goddess she refused to yield.

Low was her birth, and small her native town:
She from her art alone obtain’d renown.
Idmon, her father, made it his employ
To give the spongy fleece a purple die:
Of vulgar strain her, mother, lately dead,
With her own rank had been content to wed;
Yet she their daughter, though her time was spent
In a small hamlet, and of mean descent,
Through the great towns of Lydia gain’d a name,
And fill’d the neighb’ring countries with her fame.

Oft, to admire the niceness of her skill,
The nymphs would quit their fountain, shade, or hill;
Thither, from green Tymolus, they repair,
And leave the vineyards, their peculiar care:
Thither, from famed Partolus’ golden stream,
Drawn by her art, the curious Naiads came:
Nor would the work, when finish’d, please so much,
As, while she wrought, to view each graceful touch:
Whether the shapeless wool in balls she wound,
Or with quick motion turn’d the spindle round,
Or with her pencil drew the neat design,
Pallas, her mistress, shone in every line.
This the proud maid, with scornful air, denies,
And ev’n the goddess at her work defies;
Disowns her heavenly mistress every hour,
Nor asks her aid, nor deprecates her power.
“Let us,” she cries, “but to a trial come,
And, if she conquers, let her fix my doom.”

The goddess then a beldam’s form put on;
With silver hairs her hoary temples shone;
Propp’d hy a staff, she hobbles in her walk,
And, tottering, thus begins her old wives’ talk:

“Young maid attend, nor stubbornly despise
The admonitions of the old and wise;
For age, though scorn’d, a ripe experience bears,
That golden fruit, unknown to blooming years:
Still may remotest fame your labours crown,
And mortals your superior genius own;
But to the goddess yield, and, humbly meek,
A pardon for your bold presumption seek:
The goddess will forgive.” At this the maid,
With passion fired, her gliding shuttle stay’d,
And, darting vengeance, with an angry look,
To Pallas in disguise thus fiercely spoke:

“Thou doting thing, whose idle, babbling tongue
But too well shows the plague of living long,
Hence, and reprove, with this your sage advice,
Your giddy daughter, or your awkward niece:
Know I despise your counsel, and an still
A woman, ever wedded to my will;
And, if your skilful goddess better knows,
Let her accept the trial I propose.”

“She does,” impatient Pallas straight replies,
And, clothed with heavenly light, sprung from her odd disguise.
The nymphs and virgins of the plain adore
The awful goddess, and confess her power:
The maid alone stood unappall’d, yet show’d
A transient blush, that for a moment glow’d,
Then disappear’d, as purple streaks adorn
The opening beauties of the rosy morn;
Till Phoebus, rising prevalently bright,
Allays the tincture with his silver light.
Yet she persists, and, obstinately great,
In hopes of conquest, hurries on her fate.
The goddess now the challenge waves no more,
Nor, kindly good, advises as before.
Straight to their posts appointed both repair,
And fix their threaded looms with equal care:
Around the solid beam the web is tied,
While hollow canes the parting warp divide,
Through which, with nimble flight, the shuttles play,
And for the woof prepare a ready way:
The woof and warp unite, press’d by the toothy sley.

Thus both, their mantles button’d to their breast,
Their skilful fingers play with willing haste,
And work with pleasure, while they cheer the eye
With glowing purple of the Tyrian die:
Or, justly intermixing shades with light,
Their colourings insensibly unite.
As when a shower, transpierced with sunny rays,
Its mighty arch along the heaven displays,
From whence a thousand different colours rise,
Whose fine transition cheats the clearest eyes:
So like the intermingled shading seems,
And only differs in the last extremes,
Then threads of gold both artfully dispose,
And, as each part in just proportion rose,
Some antique fable in their work disclose.

Pallas in figures wrought the heavenly powers,
And Mars’s hill among the Athenian towers:
On lofty thrones twice six celestials sate,
Jove in the midst, and held their warm debate;
The subject weighty, and well known to fame.
“From whom the city should receive its name.”
Each god by proper features was express’d;
Jove, with majestic mien, excell’d the rest:
His three-fork’d mace the dewy sea-god shook,
And, looking sternly, smote the ragged rock,
When from the stone leap’d forth a sprightly steed,
And Neptune claims the city for the deed.

Herself she blazons, with a glittering spear,
And crested helm, that veil’d her braided hair,
With shields, and scaly breastplate, implements of war.
Struck with her pointed lance, the teeming earth
Seem’d to produce a new surprising birth,
When, from the glebe, the pledge of conquest sprung⁠—
A tree pale green, with fairest olives hung.

And then, to let her giddy rival learn
What just rewards such boldness was to earn,
Four trials at each corner had their part,
Design’d in miniature, and touch’d with art.
Haemus in one, and Rhodope of Thrace,
Transform’d to mountains, fill’d the foremost place,
Who claim’d the titles of the gods above,
And vainly used the epithets of Jove.
Another show’d where the Pigmaean dame,
Profaning Juno’s venerable name,
Turn’d to an airy crane, descends from far,
And with her pygmy subjects wages war.
In a third part, the rage of heaven’s great queen,
Display’d on proud Antigone, was seen,
Who, with presumptuous boldness, dared to vie,
For beauty, with the emperess of the sky.
Ah! what avails her ancient princely race;
Her sire a king, and Troy her native place?
Now, to a noisy stork transform’d, she flies,
And with her whiten’d pinions cleaves the skies:
And in the last remaining part was drawn
Poor Cinyras, that seem’d to weep in stone;
Clasping the temple steps, ne sadly mourn’d
His lovely daughters, now to marble turn’d.
With her own tree the finish’d piece is crown’d
And wreaths of peaceful olive all the work surround.

Arachne drew the famed intrigues of Jove,
Changed to a bull, to gratify his love;
How through the briny tide, all foaming hoar,
Lovely Europa on his back he bore.
The sea seem’d waving, and the trembling maid
Shrunk up her tender feet, as if afraid,
And, looking back on the forsaken strand,
To her companions wafts her distant hand.
Next she design’d Asteria’s fabled rape,
When Jove assumed a soaring eagle’s shape:
And show’d how Leda lay supinely press’d,
While the soft snowy swan sat hovering o’er her breast:
How in a satyr’s form the god beguiled,
When fair Antiope with twins he fill’d:
Then, like Amphitryon, but a real Jove,
In fair Alcmena’s arms he cool’d his love:
In fluid gold to Danae’s heart he came:
Aegina felt him in a lambent flame:
He took Mnemosyne in shepherd’s make
And for Deois was a speckled snake.

She made thee, Neptune, like a wanton steer,
Pacing the meads for love of Arne dear:
Next, like a stream, thy burning flame to slake;
And like a ram, for fair Bisaltis’ sake.
Then Ceres in a steed your vigour tried,
Nor could the mare the yellow goddess hide:
Next, to a fowl transform’d, you won by force
The snake-hair’d mother of the winged horse;
And, in a dolphin’s fishy form, subdued
Melantho sweet, beneath the oozy flood.

All these the maid with lively features drew,
And open’d proper landscapes to the view.
There Phobus, roving like a country swain,
Attunes his jolly pipe along the plain;
For lovely Isso’s sake, in stepherd’s weeds,
O’er pastures green his bleating flock he feeds.
There Bacchus, imaged like the clustering grape,
Melting, bedrops Erigone’s fair lap:
And there old Saturn, stung with youthful heat,
Form’d like a stallion, rushes to the feat.
Fresh flowers, which twists of ivy intertwine,
Mingling a running foliage, close the neat design.

This the bright goddess, passionately moved,
With envy saw, yet inwardly approved.
The scene of heavenly guilt with haste she tore,
Nor longer the affront with patience bore:
A boxen shuttle in her hand she took,
And more than once Arachne’s forehead struck.
The unhappy maid, impatient of the wrong,
Down from a beam her injured person hung;
When Pallas, pitying her wretched state,
At once prevented and pronounced her fate:
“Live; but depend, vile wretch,” the goddess cried,
“Doom’d in suspense for ever to be tied;
That all your race, to utmost date of time,
May feel the vengeance, and detest the crime.”

Then, going off, she sprinkled her with juice,
Which leaves of baneful aconite produced.
Touch’d with the pois’nous drug, her flowing hair
Fell to the ground, and left her temples bare;
Her usual features vanish’d from their place
Her body lessen’d all, but most her face:
Her slender fingers, hanging on each side,
With many joints, the use of legs supplied;
A spider’s bag the rest, from which she gives
A thread, and still by constant weaving lives.

Swift through the Phrygian towns the rumour flies,
And the strange news each female tongue employs:
Niobe, who, before she married, knew
The famous nymph, now found the story true;
Yet, unreclaim’d by poor Arachne’s fate,
Vainly above the gods assumed a state.
Her husband’s fame, their family’s descent,
Their power, and rich dominions’ wide extent,
Might well have justified a decent pride:
But not on these alone the dame relied.
Her lovely progeny, that far excell’d,
The mother’s heart with vain ambition swell’d:
The happiest mother not unjustly styled,
Had no conceited thoughts her tow’ring fancy fill’d.

For once a prophetess, with zeal inspired,
Their slow neglect to warm devotion fired;
Through every street of Thebes who ran possess’d,
And thus, in accents wild, her charge express’d:
“Haste, haste, ye Theban matrons, and adore,
With hallow’d rites, Latona’s mighty power,
And to the heavenly twins that from her spring,
With laurel crown’d, your smoking incense bring.”
Straight the great summons every dame obey’d,
And due submission to the goddess paid:
Graceful, with laurel chaplets dress’d, they came,
And offer’d incense in the sacred flame.

Meanwhile, surrounded with a courtly guard,
The royal Niobe in state appear’d,
Attired in robes embroider’d o’er with gold,
And mad with rage, yet lovely to behold;
Her comely tresses, trembling as she stood,
Down her fine neck with easy motion flow’d;
Then, darting round a proud, disdainful look,
In haughty tone her hasty passion broke,
And thus began: “What madness this, to court
A goddess, founded merely on report?
Dare ye a poor pretended power invoke,
While yet no altars to my godhead smoke?
Mine, whose immediate lineage stands confess’d
From Tantalus, the only mortal guest
That e’er the gods admitted to their feast.
A sister of the Pleiads gave me birth;
And Atlas, mightiest mountain upon earth,
Who bears the globe of all the stars above,
My grandsire was; and Atlas sprung from Jove.
The Theban towns my majesty adore;
And neighb’ring Phrygia trembles at my power;
Raised by my husband’s lute, with turrets crown’d,
Our lofty city stands secured around;
Within my court, where’er I turn my eyes,
Unbounded treasures to my prospect rise;
With these, my face I modestly may name
As not unworthy of so high a claim.
Seven are my daughters, of a form divine,
With seven fair sons, an indefective line.
Go, fools! consider this, and ask the cause
From which my pride its strong presumption draws;
Consider this, and then prefer to me
Caeus the Titan’s vagrant progeny,
To whom, in travail, the whole spacious earth
No room afforded for her spurious birth;
Not the least part in earth, in heaven, or seas,
Would grant your outlaw’d goddess any ease,
Till, pitying hers, from his own wandering case,
Delos, the floating island, gave a place;
There she a mother was of two at most;
Only the seventh part of what I boast.
My joys all are beyond suspicion fix’d,
With no pollutions of misfortune mix’d;
Safe on the basis of my power I stand,
Above the reach of Fortune’s fickle hand;
Lessen she may my inexhausted store,
And much destroy, yet still must leave me more.
Suppose it possible that some may die
Of this my numerous, lovely progeny,
Still with Latona I might safely vie,
Who, by her scanty breed, scarce fit to name,
But just escapes the childless woman’s shame.
Go then, with speed your laurell’d heads uncrown,
And leave the silly farce you have begun.”

The tim’rous throng their sacred rites forbore,
And from their heads the verdant laurel tore;
Their haughty queen they with regret obey’d,
And still in gentle murmurs softly pray’d.

High on the top of Cynthus’ shady mount,
With grief the goddess saw the base affront,
And, the abuse revolving in her breast,
The mother her twin offspring thus address’d:

“Lo I, my children, who with comfort knew
Your godlike birth, and thence my glory drew,
And thence have claim’d precedency of place
From all but Juno of the heavenly race,
Must now despair, and languish in disgrace.
My godhead question’d, and all rites divine,
Unless you succour, banish’d from my shrine:
Nay, more, the imp of Tantalus has flung
Reflections with her vile paternal tongue:
Has dared prefer her mortal breed to mine,
And call’d me childless, which, just Fate, may she repine!”

When to urge more the goddess was prepared,
Phoebus in haste replies: “Too much we’ve heard,
And every moment’s lost while vengeance is deferr’d.”
Diana spoke the same. Then both enshroud
Their heavenly bodies in a sable cloud,
And to the Theban towers descending light,
Through the soft yielding air direct their flight.

Without the wall there lies a champaign ground,
With even surface, far extending round,
Beaten and levell’d, while it daily feels
The trampling horse, and chariot’s grinding wheels.
Part of proud Niobe’s young rival breed,
Practising there to ride the managed steed,
Their bridles boss’d with gold, were mounted high
On stately furniture of Tyrian die.
Of these, Ismenos, who by birth had been
The first fair issue of the fruitful queen,
Just as he drew the rein, to guide his horse
Around the compass of the circling course,
Sigh’d deeply, and the pangs of smart express’d,
While the shaft stuck, engored within his breast;
And, the reins dropping from his dying hand,
He sunk quite down, and tumbled on the sand.
Sipylus next the rattling quiver heard,
And with full speed for his escape prepared.
As when the pilot from the black’ning skies
A gathering storm of wintry rain descries,
His sails unfurl’d, and crowded all with wind,
He strives to leave the threat’ning cloud behind,
So fled the youth; but an unerring dart
O’ertook him, quick discharged, and sped with art;
Fix’d in his neck behind it trembling stood,
And at his throat display’d the point besmear’d with blood:
Prone as his posture was, he tumbled o’er,
And bathed his courser’s mane with steaming gore.
Next at young Phaedimus they took their aim,
And Tantalus, who bore his grandsire’s name;
These, when their other exercise was done,
To try the wrestler’s oily sport begun,
And, straining every nerve, their skill express’d
In closest grapple, joining breast to breast,
When from the bending bow an arrow sent,
Join’d as they were, through both their bodies went;
Both groan’d, and writhing both their limbs with pain,
They fell together, bleeding on the plain;
Then both their languid eyeballs faintly roll,
And thus together breathe away their soul.
With grief Alphenor saw their doleful plight,
And smote his breast, and sicken’d at the sight,
Then to their succour ran, with eager haste,
And, fondly grieved, their stiff’ning limbs embraced;
But in the action falls: a thrilling dart,
By Phoebus guided, pierced him to the heart:
This, as they drew forth, his midriff tore:
Its barbed point the fleshy fragments bore,
And let the soul gush out in streams of purple gore.
But Damasichthon, by a double wound,
Beardless and young, lay gasping on the ground:
Fix’d in his sinewy ham, the steely point,
Stuck through his knee, and pierced the nervous joint;
And as he stoop’d to tug the painful dart,
Another stuck him in a vital part;
Shot through his windpipe, by the wing it hung,
The life-blood forced it out, and darting upward sprung.
Ilioneus, the last, with terror stands,
Lifting in prayer his unavailing hands,
And ignorant from whom his griefs arise;
“Spare me, O all ye heavenly powers,” he cries.
Phoebus was touch’d too late; the sounding bow
Had sent the shaft, and struck the fatal blow,
Which yet but gently gored his tender side;
So by a slight and easy wound he died.

Swift to the mother’s ears the rumour came,
And doleful sighs the heavy news proclaim.
With anger and surprise inflamed by turns,
In furious rage her haughty stomach burns.
First she disputes the effects of heavenly power;
Then at their daring boldness wonders more;
For poor Amphion, with sore grief distress’d,
Hoping to sooth his cares by endless rest,
Had sheathed a dagger in his wretched breast:
And she who toss’d her high disdainful head
When through the streets, in solemn pomp, she led
The throng that from Latona’s altar fled,
Assuming state beyond the proudest queen,
Was now the miserablest object seen:
Prostrate among the clay-cold dead she fell,
And kiss’d an undistinguish’d, last farewell;
Then, her pale arms advancing to the skies,
“Cruel Latona! triumph now,” she cries.
“My grieving soul in bitter anguish drench,
And with my woes your thirsty passion quench,
Feast your black malice at a price thus dear,
While the sore pangs of seven such deaths I bear.
Triumph, too cruel rival, and display
Your conquering standard, for you’ve won the day;
Yet I’ll excel; for yet, though seven are slain,
Superior still in number I remain.”
Scarce had she spoke, the bow-string’s twanging sound
Was heard, and dealt fresh terrors all around,
Which all, but Niobe alone, confound.
Stunn’d and obdurate by her load of grief,
Insensible she sits, nor hopes relief.

Before the funeral biers, all weeping sad,
Her daughters stood, in vests of sable clad.
When one surprised, and stung with sudden smart,
In vain attempts to draw the sticking dart;
But to grim death her blooming youth resigns,
And o’er her brother’s corpse her dying head reclines;
This, to assuage her mother’s anguish tries,
And, silenced in the pious action, dies;
Shot by a secret arrow, wing’d with death,
Her falt’ring lips but only gasp’d for breath.
One, on her dying sister, breathes her last;
Vainly in flight another’s hopes are placed;
This, hiding from her fate, a shelter seeks;
That trembling stands, and fills the air with shrieks
And all in vain; for now all six had found
Their way to death, each by a diff’rent wound.
The last, with eager care, the mother veil’d,
Behind her spreading mantle close conceal’d,
And with her body guarded, as a shield.
“Only for this, this youngest, I implore,
Grant me this one request, I ask no more;
O grant me this!” she passionately cries:
But, while she speaks, the destined virgin dies.

Widow’d, and childless, lamentable state!
A doleful sight, among the dead she sate;
Harden’d with woes, a statue of despair,
To ev’ry breath of wind unmoved her hair;
Her cheek still reddening, but its colour dead,
Faded her eyes, and set within her head;
No more her pliant tongue its motion keeps,
But stands congeal’d within her frozen lips;
Stagnate and dull, within her purple veins,
Its current stopp’d, the lifeless blood remains;
Her feet their usual offices refuse;
Her arms and neck their graceful gestures lose:
Action and life from ev’ry part are gone,
And ev’n her entrails turn to solid stone:
Yet still she weeps, and whirld by stormy winds,
Borne through the air, her native country finds;
There, fix’d, she stands upon a bleaky hill,
There yet her marble cheeks eternal tears distil.

Then all, reclaim’d by this example, show’d
A due regard for each peculiar god:
Both men and women their devoirs express’d,
And great Latona’s awful power confess’d.
Then, tracing instances of older time,
To suit the nature of the present crime,
Thus one begins his tale:⁠—“Where Lycia yields
A golden harvest from its fertile fields,
Some churlish peasants, in the days of yore,
Provoked the goddess to exert her power.
The thing, indeed, the meanness of the place
Has made obscure, surprising as it was;
But I myself once happen’d to behold
This famous lake, of which the story’s told.
My father, then, worn out by length of days,
Nor able to sustain the tedious ways,
Me with a guide had sent the plains to roam,
And drive his well-fed straggling heifers home.
Here, as we saunter’d through the verdant meads,
We spied a lake o’ergrown with trembling reeds,
Whose wavy tops an op’ning scene disclose,
From which an antique smoky altar rose.
I, as my superstitious guide had done,
Stopp’d short, and bless’d myself, and then went on
Yet I inquired to whom the altar stood,
Faunus, the Naiads, or some native god?
‘No sylvan deity,’ my friend replies,
‘Enshrined within this hallow’d altar lies:
For this, O youth, to that famed goddess stands,
Whom, at the imperial Juno’s rough commands,
Of ev’ry quarter of the earth bereaved,
Delos, the floating isle, at length received;
Who there, in spite of enemies, brought forth,
Beneath an olive shade, her great twin birth.

“ ‘Hence too she fled the furious stepdame’s power
And in her arms a double godhead bore;
And now the borders of fair Lycia gain’d,
Just when the summer solstice parch’d the land.
With thirst the goddess languishing, no more
Her emptied breast would yield its milky store,
When, from below, the smiling valley show’d
A silver lake that in its bottom flow’d:
A sort of clowns were reaping, near the bank,
The bending osier, and the bulrush dank,
The cress, and water-lily, fragrant weed,
Whose juicy stalk the liquid fountains feed:
The goddess came, and kneeling on the brink,
Stoop’d at the fresh repast, prepared to drink.
Then thus, being hinder’d by the rabble race,
In accents mild, expostulates the case:
“Water I only ask, and sure ’tis hard
From Nature’s common rights to be debarr’d:
This, as the genial sun, and vital air,
Should flow alike to ev’ry creature’s share.
Yet still I ask, and as a favour crave,
That which a public bounty nature gave:
Nor do I seek my weary limbs to drench,
Only, with one cool draught, my thirst I’d quench.
Now from my throat the usual moisture dries,
And ev’n my voice in broken accents dies:
One draught as dear as life I should esteem,
And water, now I thirst, would nectar seem:
O! let my little babes your pity move,
And melt your hearts to charitable love;
They (as by chance they did) extend to you
Their little hands, and my request pursue.” ’

“Whom would these soft persuasions not subdue,
Though the most rustic and unmanner’d crew?
Yet they the goddess’s request refuse,
And with rude words reproachfully abuse.
Nay, more, with spiteful feet the villains trode
O’er the soft bottom of the marshy flood,
And blacken’d all the lake with clouds of rising mud.

“Her thirst, by indignation, was suppress’d;
Bent on revenge, the goddess stood confess’d.
Her suppliant hands uplifting to the skies,
For a redress to heaven she now applies:
‘And may you live,’ she passionately cried,
‘Doom’d in that pool for ever to abide.’

“The goddess has her wish: for now they choose
To plunge and dive among the watery ooze;
Sometimes they show their head above the brim,
And on the glassy surface spread to swim;
Often upon the bank their station take,
Then spring and leap into the cooly lake.
Still, void of shame, they lead a clam’rous life.
And, croaking, still scold on in endless strife;
Compell’d to live beneath the liquid stream,
Where still they quarrel, and attempt to scream.
Now, from their bloated throat, their voice puts on
Imperfect murmurs in a hoarser tone;
Their noisy jaws, with bawling now grown wide,
An ugly sight! extend on either side;
Their motley back, streak’d with a list of green,
Join’d to their head, without a neck, is seen;
And, with a belly broad and white, they look
Mere frogs, and still frequent the muddy brook.”

Scarce had the mar; this famous story told,
Of vengeance on the Lycians shown of old,
When, straight, another pictures to their view
The satyr’s fate, whom angry Phoebus slew;
Who, raised with high conceit, and puff’d with pride,
At his own pipe the skilful god defied.
“Why do you tear me from myself?” he cries;
“Ah! cruel; must my skin be made the prize?
This for a silly pipe?” he roaring said;
Meanwhile the skin from off his limbs was flay’d.
All bare, and raw, one large continued wound,
With streams of blood his body bathed the ground.
The bluish veins their trembling pulse disclosed,
The stringy nerves lay naked and exposed,
His entrails too distinctly each express’d,
With every shining fibre of his breast.

The fauns and sylvans, with the nymphs that rove
Among the satyrs in the shady grove,
Olympus, known of old, and every swain
That fed, or flock, or herd, upon the plain,
Bewail’d the loss, and with their tears, that flow’d,
A kindly moisture on the earth bestow’d,
That soon, conjoin’d and in a body ranged,
Sprung from the ground, to limpid water changed;
Which, down through Phrygia’s rocks, a mighty stream,
Comes tumbling to the sea, and Marsya is its name.

From these relations straight the people turn
To present truths, and lost Amphion mourn;
The mother most was blamed, yet some relate
That Pelops pitied and bewail’d her fate,
And stripp’d his clothes, and laid his shoulder bare
And made the ivory miracle appear.
This shoulder, from the first, was form’d of flesh,
As lively as the other, and as fresh;
But, when the youth was by his father slain,
The gods restored his mangled limbs again;
Only that place which joins the neck and arm,
The rest untouch’d, was found to suffer harm;
The loss of which an ivory piece sustain’d;
And thus the youth his limbs and life regain’d.

To Thebes the neighb’ring princes all repair,
And with condolence the misfortune share.
Each bord’ring state in solemn form address’d,
And each, betimes, a friendly grief express’d;
Argos, with Sparta’s and Mycenae’s towns,
And Calydon, yet free from fierce Diana’s frowns;
Corinth for finest brass well famed of old;
Orchomenos for men of courage bold;
Cleonae lying in the lowly dale;
And rich Messene with its fertile vale;
Pylos for Nestor’s city after famed;
And Troezen, not as yet from Pittheus named;
And those fair cities, which are hemm’d around
By double seas within the Isthmian ground;
And those which farther from the seacoast stand,
Lodged in the bosom of the spacious land.

Who can believe it? Athens was the last,
Though for politeness famed for ages past:
For a strait siege, which then their walls enclosed,
Such acts of kind humanity opposed:
And thick with ships, from foreign nations bound,
Seaward their city lay invested round.

These, with auxiliar forces led from far,
Tereus of Thrace, brave, and inured to war,
Had quite defeated, and obtain’d a name,
The warrior’s due, among the sons of fame.
This, with his wealth, and power, and ancient line,
From Mars derived, Pandion’s thoughts incline
His daughter Procne with the prince to join.

Nor Hymen, nor the Graces, here preside,
Nor Juno, to befriend the blooming bride;
But fiends with funeral brands the process led,
And furies waited at the genial bed;
And, all night long, the screeching owl aloof,
With baleful notes, sat brooding o’er the roof.
With such ill omens was the match begun,
That made them parents of a hopeful son.
Now Thrace congratulates their seeming joy,
And they, in thankful rites, their minds employ:
If the fair queen’s espousals pleased before,
Itys, the newborn prince, now pleases more;
And each bright day the birth and bridal feast
Were kept with hallow’d pomp above the rest.
So far true happiness may lie conceal’d,
When, by false lights, we fancy ’tis reveal’d!

Now, since their nuptials, had the golden sun
Five courses round his ample zodiac run,
When gentle Procne thus her lord address’d,
And spoke the secret wishes of her breast:
“If I,” she said, “have ever favour found,
Let my petition with success be crown’d.
Let me at Athens my dear sister see;
Or, let her come to Thrace and visit me;
And, lest my father should her absence mourn,
Promise that she shall make a quick return.
With thanks I’d own the obligation due,
Only, O Tereus, to the gods and you.”

Now, plied with oar and sail at his command,
The nimble galleys reach’d the Athenian land,
And anchor’d in the famed Piraean bay,
While Tereus to the palace takes his way;
The king salutes, and, ceremonies pass’d,
Begins the fatal embassy at last:
The occasion of his voyage he declares,
And, with his own, his wife’s request prefers;
Asks leave that, only for a little space,
Their lovely sister might embark for Thrace.

Thus, while he spoke, appear’d the royal maid,
Bright Philomela, splendidly array’d;
But most attractive in her charming face,
And comely person, turn’d with ev’ry grace:
Like those fair nymphs that are described to rove
Across the glades and op’nings of the grove;
Only that these are dress’d for sylvan sports,
And less become the finery of courts.

Tereus beheld the virgin, and admired,
And with the coals of burning love was fired;
Like crackling stubble, or the summer hay,
When forked lightnings o’er the meadows play.
Such charms in any breast might kindle love,
But him the heats of inbred passion move,
To which, though Thrace is naturally prone,
Yet his is still superior, and his own.
Straight her attendants he designs to buy,
And with large bribes her governess would try;
Herself with ample gifts resolves to bend,
And his whole kingdom in the attempt expend;
Or, snatch’d away, by force of arms to bear,
And justify the act with open war.
The boundless passion boils within his breast,
And his projecting soul admits no rest.

And now, impatient of the least delay,
By pleading Procne’s cause, he speeds his way:
The eloquence of love his tongue inspires,
And, in his wife’s, he speaks his own desires;
Hence all his importunities arise,
And tears unmanly trickle from his eyes.

Ye gods! what thick involving darkness blinds
The stupid faculties of mortal minds!
Tereus the credit of good-nature gains
From these his crimes; so well the villain feigns,
And, unsuspecting of his base designs,
In the request fair Philomela joins;
Her snowy arms her aged sire embrace,
And clasp his neck with an endearing grace:
Only to see her sister she entreats,
A seeming blessing, which a curse completes.
Tereus surveys her with a luscious eye,
And in his mind forestalls the blissful joy:
Her circling arms a scene of love inspire,
And ev’ry kiss foments the raging fire.
Fondly he wishes for the father’s place,
To feel, and to return, the warm embrace;
Since not the nearest ties of filial blood
Would damp his flame, and force him to be good.

At length, for both their sakes, the king agrees;
And Philomela, on her bended knees,
Thanks him for what her fancy calls success,
When cruel Fate intends her nothing less.

Now Phoebus, hast’ning to ambrosial rest,
His fiery steeds drove sloping down the west;
The sculptured gold with sparkling wines was fill’d,
And, with rich meats, each cheerful table smiled.
Plenty and mirth the royal banquet close,
Then all retire to sleep and sweet repose.
But the amorous monarch, though withdrawn apart,
Still feels love’s poison rankling in his heart:
Her face divine is stamp’d within his breast,
Fancy imagines, and improves the rest:
And thus, kept waking by intense desire,
He nourishes his own prevailing fire.

Next day the good old king for Tereus sends,
And to his charge the virgin recommends:
His hand with tears the indulgent father press’d,
Then spoke, and thus with tenderness address’d:

“Since the kind instances of pious love
Do all pretence of obstacle remove:
Since Procne’s, and her own, with your request,
O’errule the fears of a paternal breast,
With you, dear son, my daughter I entrust,
And, by the gods, adjure you to be just;
By truth, and ev’ry consanguineal tie,
To watch and guard her with a father’s eye;
And, since the least delay will tedious prove,
In keeping from my sight the child I love,
With speed return her, kindly to assuage
The tedious troubles of my ling’ring age.
And you, my Philomel, let it suffice,
To know your sister’s banish’d from my eyes;
If any sense of duty sways your mind,
Let me from you the shortest absence find.”
He wept; then kiss’d his child; and while he speaks,
The tears fall gently down his aged cheeks.
Next, as a pledge of fealty, he demands,
And, with a solemn charge, conjoins their hands;
Then to his daughter and his grandson sends,
And by their mouth a blessing recommends;
While, in a voice with dire forebodings broke.
Sobbing and faint, the last farewell was spoke.

Now Philomela, scarce received on board,
And in the royal gilded bark secured,
Beheld the dashes of the bending oar,
The ruffled sea, and the receding shore,
When straight (his joy impatient of disguise)
“We’ve gain’d our point,” the rough barbarian cries;
“Now I possess the dear, the blissful hour,
And ev’ry wish subjected to my power.”
As when the bold rapacious bird of Jove,
With crooked talons, stooping from above,
Has snatch’d, and carried to his lofty nest
A captive hare, with cruel gripes oppress’d,
Secure, with fix’d and unrelenting eyes,
He sits, and views the helpless, trembling prize.

Their vessels now had made the intended land.
And all with joy descend upon the strand,
When the false tyrant seized the princely maid,
And to a lodge in distant woods convey’d;
Pale, sinking, and distress’d with jealous fears,
And, asking for her sister, all in tears.
The monster, on his purpose fully bent,
No longer now delay’d his base intent.
Her piercing accents to her sire complain,
And to her absent sister, but in vain;
In vain she importunes, with doleful cries,
Each unattentive godhead of the skies.
She pants and trembles like the bleating prey,
From some close-hunted wolf just snatch’d away,
That still with fearful horror looks around,
And on its flank regards the bleeding wound:
Or, as the tim’rous dove, the danger o’er,
Beholds her shining plumes besmear’d with gore;
And though deliver’d from the falcon’s claw,
Yet shivers, and retains a secret awe.

But when her mind a calm reflection shared,
And all her scatter’d spirits were repaired,
Torn and disorder’d while her tresses hung,
Her livid hands, like one that mourn’d, she wrung,
Then thus, with grief o’erwhelmed her languid eyes:
“Savage, inhuman, cruel wretch!” she cries,
“Whom nor a parent’s strict commands could move,
Though charged and utter’d with the tears of love,
Nor virgin innocence, nor all that’s due
To the strong contract of the nuptial vow;
Virtue, by this, in wild confusion’s laid,
And I compelled to wrong my sister’s bed;
While you, regardless of your marriage oath,
With stains of incest have defiled us both.
Though I deserved some punishment to find,
This was, ye gods! too cruel and unkind.
Yet, villain, to complete your horrid guilt,
Stab here, and let my tainted blood be spilt.
O! happy, had it come before I knew
The cursed embrace of vile perfidious you;
Then, my pale ghost, pure from incestuous love,
Had wander’d spotless through the Elysian grove.
But, if the gods above have power to know,
And judge those actions that are done below,
Unless the dreaded thunders of the sky,
Like me, subdued, and violated lie,
Still my revenge shall take its proper time,
And suit the baseness of your hellish crime;
Myself abandon’d, and devoid of shame,
Through the wide world your actions will proclaim;
Or, though I’m prison’d in this lonely den,
Obscured and buried from the sight of men,
My mournful voice the pitying rocks shall move,
And my complainings echo through the grove.
Hear me, o Heaven! and, if a god be there,
Let him regard me, and accept my prayer.”

Struck with these words, the tyrant’s guilty breast
With fear and anger was by turns possess’d;
Now, with remorse his conscience deeply stung,
He drew the falchion that beside him hung,
And first her tender arms behind her bound,
Then dragg’d her by the hair along the ground.
The princess willingly her throat reclined,
And view’d the steel with a contented mind;
But soon her tongue the girding pincers strain,
With anguish, soon she feels the piercing pain:
“O father, father!” she would fain have spoke,
But the sharp torture her intention broke;
In vain she tries, for now the blade has cut
Her tongue sheer off, close to the trembling root;
The mangled part still quiver’d on the ground,
Murmuring with a faint, imperfect sound:
And, as a serpent writhes his wounded train,
Uneasy, panting, and possess’d with pain,
The piece, while life remain’d, still trembled fast,
And to its mistress pointed to the last.

The monarch ventures to his Procne’s sight;
Loaded with guilt, and cloyed with long delight;
There, with feign’d grief, and false dissembled sighs,
Begins a formal narrative of lies;
Her sister’s death he artfully declares,
Then weeps, and raises credit from his tears.
Her vest with flowers of gold embroider’d o’er,
With grief distress’d, the mournful matron tore,
And a beseeming suit of gloomy sable wore.
With cost, an honorary tomb she raised,
And thus the imaginary ghost appeased.
Deluded queen! the fate of her you love,
Nor grief, nor pity, but revenge, should move.

Through the twelve signs had pass’d the circling sun,
And round the compass of the zodiac run;
What must unhappy Philomela do,
For ever subject to her keeper’s view?
Huge walls of massy stone the lodge surround,
From her own mouth no way of speaking’s found.
But all our wants by wit may be supplied,
And art makes up what fortune has denied.
With skill exact a Phrygian web she strung,
Fix’d to a loom that in her chamber hung,
Where inwrought letters, upon white display’d,
In purple notes, her wretched case betray’d.
The piece, when finish’d, secretly she gave
Into the charge of one poor menial slave;
And then, with gestures, made him understand
It must be safe convey’d to Procne’s hand.
The slave, with speed, the queen’s apartment sought,
And render’d up his charge, unknowing what he brought.
But when the ciphers, figured in each fold,
Her sister’s melancholy story told,
(Strange that she could!) with silence she survey’d
The tragic piece, and without weeping read:
In such tumultuous haste her passions sprung,
They choked her voice, and quite disarm’d her tongue.
No room for female tears; the Furies rise,
Darting vindictive glances from her eyes;
And, stung with rage, she bounds from place to place,
While stern revenge sits low’ring in her face.

Now the triennial celebration came,
Observed to Bacchus by each Thracian dame;
When, in the privacies of night retired,
They act his rites, with sacred rapture fired.
By night, the tinkling cymbals ring around,
While the shrill notes from Rhodope resound;
By night, the queen, disguised, forsakes the court,
To mingle in the festival resort:
Leaves of the curling vine her temples shade,
And, with a circling wreath, adorn her head;
Adown her back the stag’s rough spoils appear,
Light on her shoulder leans a cornel spear.

Thus, in the fury of the god conceal’d,
Procne her own mad headstrong passion veil’d:
Now, with her gang, to the thick wood she flies,
And with religious yellings fills the skies:
The fatal lodge, as ’twere by chance, she seeks,
And through the bolted doors an entrance breaks.
From thence, her sister snatching by the hand,
Mask’d like the ranting Bacchanalian band,
Within the limits of the court she drew,
Shading, with ivy green, her outward hue.
But Philomela, conscious of the place,
Felt new reviving pangs of her disgrace;
A shiv’ring cold prevail’d in ev’ry part,
And the chill’d blood ran trembling to her heart.

Soon as the queen a fit retirement found,
Stripp’d of the garlands that her temples crown’d,
She straight unveil’d her blushing sister’s face,
And fondly clasp’d her with a close embrace:
But, in confusion lost, the unhappy maid,
With shame dejected, hung her drooping head,
As guilty of a crime that stain’d her sister’s bed.
That speech, that should her injured virtue clear,
And make her spotless innocence appear,
Is now no more, only her hands and eyes
Appeal, in signals, to the conscious skies.
In Procne’s breast the rising passions boil,
And burst in anger with a mad recoil;
Her sister’s ill-timed grief with scorn she blames,
Then, in these furious words, her rage proclaims:

“Tears, unavailing, but defer our time,
The stabbing sword must expiate the crime;
Or worse, if wit, on bloody vengeance bent,
A weapon more tormenting can invent.
O sister! I’ve prepared my stubborn heart
To act some hellish and unheard-of part;
Either the palace to surround with fire,
And see the villain in the flames expire,
Or, with a knife, dig out his cursed eyes,
Or his false tongue with racking engines seize.
Tortures enough my passion has design’d,
But the variety distracts my mind.”

Awhile thus wav’ring stood the furious dame,
When Itys fondling to his mother came;
From him the cruel, fatal hint she took,
She view’d him with a stern, remorseless look;
“Ah! but too like thy wicked sire,” she said,
Forming the direful purpose in her head.
At this a sullen grief her voice suppress’d,
While silent passions struggle in her breast.

Now, at her lap arrived, the flatt’ring boy
Salutes his parent with a smiling joy:
About her neck his little arms are thrown,
And he accosts her in a prattling tone;
Then her tempestuous anger was allay’d,
And in its full career her vengeance stay’d;
While tender thoughts, in spite of passion, rise,
And melting tears disarm her threat’ning eyes.
But, when she found the mother’s easy heart
Too fondly swerving from the intended part,
Her injured sister’s face again she view’d,
And, as by turns, surveying both she stood.
“While this fond boy,” she said, “can thus express
The moving accents of his fond address,
Why stands my sister of her tongue bereft,
Forlorn and sad, in speechless silence left?
O Procne! see the fortune of your house;
Such is your fate when match’d to such a spouse!
Conjugal duty, if observed to him,
Would change from virtue, and become a crime:
For all respect to Tereus must debase
The noble blood of great Pandion’s race.”

Straight, at these words, with big resentment fill’d,
Furious her look, she flew and seized her child,
Like a fell tigress of the savage kind,
That drags the tender suckling of the hind
Through India’s gloomy groves, where Ganges laves
The shady scene, and rolls his streamy waves.

Now to a close apartment they were come,
Far off retired within the spacious dome,
When Procne, on revengeful mischief bent,
Home to his heart a piercing poniard sent.
Itys, with rueful cries, but all too late,
Holds out his hands, and deprecates his fate,
Still at his mother’s neck he fondly aims,
And strives to melt her with endearing names;
Yet still the cruel mother perseveres,
Nor with concern his bitter anguish hears.
This might suffice; but Philomela too
Across his throat a shining cutlass drew.
Then both, with knives, dissect each quiv’ring part,
And carve the butcher’d limbs with cruel art,
Which, whelm’d in boiling cauldrons o’er the fire,
Or, turn’d on spits, in steamy smoke aspire;
While the long entries, with their slippery floor,
Run down in purple streams of clotted gore.

Ask’d by his wife to this inhuman feast,
Tereus, unknowingly, is made a guest,
While she, her plot the better to disguise,
Styles it some unknown mystic sacrifice;
And such the nature of the hallow’d rite,
The wife her husband only could invite;
The slaves must all withdraw, and be debarr’d the sight.
Tereus, upon a throne of antique state,
Loftily raised, before the banquet sate;
And, glutton like, luxuriously pleased,
With his own flesh his hungry maw appeased.
Nay, such a blindness o’er his senses falls
That he for Itys to the table calls.
When Procne, now impatient to disclose
The joy that from her full revenge arose,
Cries out, in transports of a cruel mind,
“Within yourself your Itys you may find.”
Still at this puzzling answer, with surprise,
Around the room he sends his curious eyes;
And, as he still inquired, and call’d aloud,
Fierce Philomela, all besmeared with blood,
Her hands with murder stain’d, her spreading hair
Hanging dishevell’d, with a ghastly air
Stepp’d forth, and flung, full in the tyrant’s face,
The head of Itys, gory as it was:
Nor ever long’d so much to use her tongue,
And with a just reproach to vindicate her wrong.

The Thracian monarch from the table flings,
While with his cries the vaulted parlour rings:
His imprecations echo down to hell,
And rouse the snaky furies from their Stygian cell.
One while he labours to disgorge his breast,
And free his stomach from the cursed feast;
Then, weeping o’er his lamentable doom,
He styles himself his son’s sepulchral tomb.
Now, with drawn sabre and impetuous speed,
In close pursuit he drives Pandion’s breed,
Whose nimble feet spring with so swift a force
Across the fields, they seem to wing their course.
And now on real wings themselves they raise,
And steer their airy flight by different ways;
One to the woodland’s shady covert hies,
Around the smoky roof the other flies,
Whose feathers yet the marks of murder stain,
Where, stamp’d upon her breast, the crimson spots remain.
Tereus, through grief, and haste to be revenged,
Shares the like fate, and to a bird is changed:
Fix’d on his head the crested plumes appear,
Long is his beak, and sharpen’d like a spear:
Thus arm’d, his looks his inward mind display,
And, to a lapwing turn’d, he fans his way.

Exceeding trouble for his children’s fate,
Shorten’d Pandion’s days, and changed his date;
Down to the shades below, with sorrow spent,
An earlier, unexpected ghost he went.

Erechtheus next the Athenian sceptre sway’d
Whose rule the state with joint consent obey’d;
So mix’d his justice with his valour flow’d,
His reign one scene of princely goodness show’d.
Four hopeful youths, as many females bright,
Sprung from his loins, and sooth’d him with delight.

Two of these sisters, of a lovelier air,
Excell’d the rest, though all the rest were fair.
Procris to Cephalus in wedlock tied,
Bless’d the young sylvan with a blooming bride:
For Orithyia Boreas suffer’d pain;
For the coy maid sued long, but sued in vain;
Tereus, his neighbour, and his Thracian blood,
Against the match a main objection stood,
Which made his vows, and all his suppliant love,
Empty as air, and ineffectual, prove.

But when he found his soothing flatteries fail,
Nor saw his soft addresses could avail,
Blustering with ire, he quickly has recourse
To rougher arts, and his own native force.
“ ’Tis well,” he said; “such usage is my due,
When thus disguised by foreign ways I sue;
When my stern airs and fierceness I disclaim,
And sigh for love, ridiculously tame;
When soft addresses foolishly I try,
Nor my own stronger remedies apply.
By force and violence I chiefly live,
By them the low’ring stormy tempests drive,
In foaming billows raise the hoary deep,
Writhe knotted oaks, and sandy deserts sweep,
Congeal the falling flakes of fleecy snow,
And bruise with rattling hail the plain below.
I and my brother winds, when join’d above,
Through the waste champaign of the skies we rove,
With such a boisterous full career engage,
That heaven’s whole concave thunders at our rage.
While, struck from nitrous clouds, fierce lightnings play,
Dart through the storm, and gild the gloomy day:
Or when, in subterraneous caverns pent,
My breath against the hollow earth is bent,
The quaking world above, and ghosts below,
My mighty power, by dear experience, know,
Tremble with fear, and dread the fatal blow.
This is the only cure to be applied,
Thus to Erechtheus I should be allied;
And thus the scornful virgin should be woo’d,
Not by entreaty, but by force subdued.”

Boreas, in passion, spoke these huffing things,
And, as he spoke, he shook his dreadful wings,
At which, afar the shivering sea was fann’d,
And the wide surface of the distant land:
His dusty mantle o’er the hills he drew,
And swept the lowly valleys as he flew;
Then, with his yellow wings, embraced the maid,
And, wrapp’d in dusky clouds, far off convey’d.
The sparkling blaze of love’s prevailing fire
Shone brighter as he flew, and flamed the higher
And now the god, possess’d of his delight,
To northern Thrace pursued his airy flight.

Two lovely twins, the effect of this embrace,
Crown their soft labours, and their nuptials grace,
Who, like their mother, beautiful and fair,
Their father’s strength, and feather’d pinions, share:
Yet these at first were wanting, as ’tis said,
And after, as they grew, their shoulders spread.
Zethes and Calais, the pretty twins,
Remain’d unfledg’d, while smooth their beardless chins:
But when, in time, the budding silver down
Shaded their face, and on their cheeks was grown,
Two sprouting wings upon their shoulders sprung,
Like those in birds, that veil the callow young.
Then, as their age advanced, and they began
From greener youth to ripen into man,
With Jason’s Argonauts they cross’d the seas,
Embark’d in quest of the fam’d golden fleece;
There, with the rest, the first frail vessel tried,
And boldly ventured on the swelling tide.