Theseus requests the god to tell his woes,
Whence his maim’d brow, and whence his groans arose:
When thus the Calydonian stream replied,
With twining reeds his careless tresses tied:
“Ungrateful is the tale, for who can bear,
When conquer’d, to rehearse the shameful war?
Yet I’ll the melancholy story trace;
So great a conqueror softens the disgrace:
Nor was it still so mean the prize to yield,
As great and glorious to dispute the field.

“Perhaps you’ve heard of Dejanira’s name,
For all the country spoke her beauty’s fame.
Long was the nymph by numerous suitors woo’d,
Each with address his envied hopes pursued:
I join’d the loving band to gain the fair,
Reveal’d my passion to her father’s ear:
Their vain pretensions all the rest resign,
Alcides only strove to equal mine;
He boasts his birth from Jove, recounts his spoils,
His stepdame’s hate subdued, and finish’d toils.

“ ‘Can mortals then,’ said I, ‘with gods compare?
Behold a god! mine is the watery care:
Through your wide realms I take my mazy way,
Branch into streams, and o’er the region stray:
No foreign guest your daughter’s charms adores,
But one who rises in your native shores.
Let not his punishment your pity move:
Is Juno’s hate an argument for love?
Though you your life from fair Alcmena drew,
Jove’s a feign’d father, or by fraud a true.
Choose then, confess thy mother’s honour lost,
Or thy descent from Jove no longer boast.’

“While thus I spoke, he look’d with stern disdain,
Nor could the sallies of his wrath restrain,
Which thus break forth: ‘This arm decides our right,
Vanquish’d in words, be mine the prize in fight.’

“Bold he rush’d on. My honour to maintain,
I fling my verdant garments on the plain,
My arms stretch forth, my pliant limbs prepare,
And with bent hands expect the furious war.
O’er my sleek skin now gather’d dust he throws,
And yellow sand his mighty muscles strows:
Oft he my neck and nimble legs assails;
He seems to grasp me, but as often fails;
Each part he now invades with eager hand,
Safe in my bulk immoveable I stand;
So when loud storms break high, and foam and roar,
Against some mole that stretches from the shore,
The firm foundation lasting tempests braves,
Defies the warring winds and driving waves.

“Awhile we breathe, then forward rush amain,
Renew the combat, and our ground maintain;
Foot strove with foot, I, prone, extend my breast,
Hands war with hands, and forehead forehead press’d.
Thus have I seen two furious bulls engage,
Inflamed with equal love and equal rage,
Each claims the fairest heifer of the grove,
And conquest only can decide their love:
The trembling herds survey the fight from far,
Till victory decides the important war:
Three times, in vain, he strove my joints to wrest,
To force my hold, and throw me from his breast;
The fourth he broke my gripe, that clasp’d him round,
Then with new force he stretch’d me on the ground;
Close to my back the mighty burden clung,
As if a mountain o’er my limbs were flung;
Believe my tale; nor do I, boastful, aim
By feign’d narration to extol my fame;
No sooner from his arm I freedom get,
Unlock my arms, that flow’d with trickling sweat,
But quick he seized me, and renew’d the strife,
As my exhausted bosom pants for life;
My neck he gripes, my knee to earth he strains,
I fall, and bite the sand with shame and pains.

“O’ermatch’d in strength, to wiles and arts I take,
And slip his hold in form of speckled snake,
Who, when I writhed in spires my body round,
Or show’d my forky tongue with hissing sound,
Smiles at my threats: ‘Such foes my cradle knew,’
He cries; ‘dire snakes my infant hand o’erthrew:
A dragon’s form might other conquests gain;
To war with me you take that shape in vain:
Art thou proportion’d to the hydra’s length,
Who by his wounds received augmented strength?
He raised a hundred hissing heads in air;
When one I lopp’d, up sprung a dreadful pair:
By his wounds fertile, and with slaughter strong,
Singly I quell’d him, and stretch’d dead along.
What canst thou do, a form precarious, prone,
To rouse my rage with terrors not thy own?’
He said, and round my neck his hands he cast,
And with his straining fingers wrung me fast;
My throat he tortured close as pincers clasp;
In vain I strove to loose the forceful grasp.

“Thus vanquish’d too, a third form still remains,
Changed to a bull, my lowing fills the plains:
Straight on the left his nervous arms were thrown
Upon my brindled neck, and tugg’d it down;
Then deep he struck my horn into the sand,
And fell’d my bulk along the dusty land:
Nor yet his fury cool’d; ’twixt rage and scorn,
From my maim’d front he tore the stubborn horn;
This, heap’d with flowers and fruits, the Naiads bear,
Sacred to plenty, and the bounteous year.”

He spoke, when lo! a beauteous nymph appears,
Girt, like Diana’s train, with flowing hairs:
The horn she brings, in which all autumn’s stored,
And ruddy apples for the second board.

Now morn begins to dawn, the sun’s bright fire
Gilds the high mountains, and the youths retire;
Nor stay’d they till the troubled stream subsides,
And in its bounds with peaceful current glides;
But Achelous in his oosy bed
Deep hides his brow deform’d, and rustic head;
No real wound the victor’s triumph show’d,
But his lost honours grieved the watery god;
Yet ev’n that loss the willow’s leaves o’erspread,
And verdant reeds, in garlands, bind his head.

This virgin too, thy love, O Nessus, found;
To her alone you owe the fatal wound.
As the strong son of Jove his bride conveys,
Where his paternal lands their bulwarks raise;
Where from her slopy urn Evenus pours
Her rapid current, swell’d by wintry showers,
He came. The frequent eddies whirl’d the tide,
And the deep rolling waves all pass denied.
As for himself, he stood unmoved by fears,
For now his bridal charge employ’d his cares.
The strong-limb’d Nessus thus officious cried
(For he the shallows of the stream had tried),
“Swim thou, Alcides, all thy strength prepare,
On yonder bank I’ll lodge thy nuptial care.”

The Aonian chief to Nessus trusts his wife,
All pale and trembling for her hero’s life.
Clothed as he stood in the fierce lion’s hide,
The laden quiver o’er his shoulder tied
(For cross the stream his bow and club were cast),
Swift he plunged in: “These billows shall be pass’d,”
He said, nor sought where smoother waters glide,
But stemm’d the rapid dangers of the tide.
The bank he reach’d, again the bow he bears,
When, hark! his bride’s known voice alarms his ears.
“Nessus, to thee I call,” aloud he cries,
“Vain is thy trust in flight, be timely wise:
Thou monster double-shaped, my right set free:
If thou no rev’rence owe my fame and me,
Yet kindred should thy lawless lust deny.
Think not, perfidious wretch, from me to fly;
Though wing’d with horses’ speed, wounds shall pursue.”
Swift as his words the fatal arrow flew:
The centaur’s back admits the feather’d wood,
And through his breast the barbed weapon stood,
Which when, in anguish, through the flesh he tore,
From both the wounds gush’d forth the spumy gore,
Mix’d with Lernaean venom; this he took,
Nor dire revenge his dying breast forsook;
His garment, in the reeking purple died,
To rouse love’s passion, he presents the bride.

Now a long interval of time succeeds,
When the great son of Jove’s immortal deeds,
And stepdame’s hate, had fill’d earth’s utmost round,
He from Oechalia, with new laurels crown’d,
In triumph was return’d: he rites prepares,
And to the king of gods directs his prayers:
“When Fame (whom Falsehood clothes in Truth’s disguise,
And swells her little bulk with growing lies)
Thy tender ear, O Dejanira, moved,
That Hercules the fair Iole loved.”
Her love believes the tale; the truth she fears
Of his new passion, and gives way to tears.
The flowing tears diffused her wretched grief,
“Why seek I thus, from streaming eyes, relief?”
She cries; “indulge not thus these fruitless cares,
The harlot will but triumph in thy tears:
Let something be resolved, while yet there’s time,
My bed not conscious of a rival’s crime.
In silence shall I mourn, or loud complain?
Shall I seek Calydon, or here remain?
What though allied to Meleager’s fame,
I boast the honours of a sister’s name?
My wrongs, perhaps, now urge me to pursue
Some desp’rate deed, by which the world shall view
How far revenge and woman’s rage can rise,
When welt’ring in her blood the harlot dies.”

Thus various passions ruled by turns her breast,
She now resolves to send the fatal vest,
Died with Lernaean gore, whose power might move
His soul anew, and rouse declining love.
Nor knew she what her sudden rage bestows,
When she to Lychas trusts her future woes;
With soft endearments she the boy commands
To bear the garment to her husband’s hands.

The unwitting hero takes the gift in haste,
And o’er his shoulders Lerna’s poison cast:
At first the fire with frankincense he strows,
And utters to the gods his holy vows,
And on the marble altar’s polish’d frame
Pours forth the grapy stream; the rising flame
Sudden dissolves the subtle pois’nous juice,
Which taints his blood, and all his nerves bedews.
With wonted fortitude he bore the smart,
And not a groan confess’d his burning heart.
At length his patience was subdued by pain;
He rends the sacred altar from the plain;
Oete’s wide forests echo with his cries:
Now to rip off the deathful robe he tries.
Where’er he plucks the vest, the skin he tears,
The mangled muscles and huge bones he bares,
(A ghastful sight!) or raging with his pain,
To rend the sticking plague he tugs in vain.

As the red iron hisses in the flood,
So boils the venom in his curdling blood.
Now with the greedy flame his entrails glow,
And livid sweats down all his body flow;
The cracking nerves burnt up are burst in twain,
The lurking venom melts his swimming brain.

Then, lifting both his hands aloft, he cries,
“Glut thy revenge, dread emp’ress of the skies;
Sate with my death the rancour of thy heart,
Look down with pleasure, and enjoy my smart.
Or, if e’er pity moved a hostile breast
(For here I stand thy enemy profess’d),
Take hence this hateful life, with tortures torn,
Inured to trouble, and to labours born.
Death is the gift most welcome to my wo,
And such a gift a stepdame may bestow.
Was it for this Busiris was subdued,
Whose barbarous temples reek’d with strangers’ blood?
Press’d in these arms his fate Antaeus found,
Nor gain’d recruited vigour from the ground.
Did I not triple-form’d Geryon fell?
Or did I fear the triple dog of hell?
Did not these hands the bull’s arm’d forehead hold?
Are not our mighty toils in Elis told?
Do not Stymphalian lakes proclaim thy fame?
And fair Parthenian woods resound thy name?
Who seized the golden belt of Thermodon?
And who the dragon-guarded apples won?
Could the fierce centaur’s strength my force with stand,
Or the fell boar that spoil’d the Arcadian land?
Did not these arms the hydra’s rage subdue,
Who from his wounds to double fury grew?
What if the Thracian horses, fat with gore,
Who human bodies in their mangers tore,
I saw, and with their barb’rous lord o’erthrew?
What if these hands Nemaea’s lion slew?
Did not this neck the heavenly globe sustain?
The female partner of the Thunderer’s reign
Fatigued at length suspends her harsh commands,
Yet no fatigue hath slack’d these valiant hands.
But now new plagues pursue me, neither force,
Nor arms, nor darts, can stop their raging course.
Devouring flame through my rack’d entrails strays,
And on my lungs and shrivell’d muscles preys.
Yet still Eurystheus breathes the vital air.
What mortal now shall seek the gods with prayer?”

The hero said; and, with the torture stung,
Furious o’er Oete’s lofty hills he sprung.
Stuck with the shaft, thus scours the tiger round,
And seeks the flying author of his wound.
Now might you see him trembling, now he vents
His anguish’d soul in groans, and loud laments;
He strives to tear the clinging vest in vain,
And with uprooted forests strows the plain;
Now kindling into rage, his hands he rears,
And to his kindred gods directs his prayers.
When Lychas, lo, he spies; who trembling flew,
And in a hollow rock conceal’d from view,
Had shunn’d his wrath. Now grief renew’d his pain,
His madness chafed, and thus he raves again:

“Lychas, to thee alone my fate I owe,
Who bore the gift, the cause of all my wo.”
The youth all pale with shiv’ring fear was stung,
And vain excuses falter’d on his tongue.
Alcides snatch’d him, as with suppliant face
He strove to clasp his knees, and beg for grace:
He toss’d him o’er his head with airy course,
And hurl’d with more than with an engine’s force:
Far o’er the Euboean main aloof he flies,
And hardens by degrees amid the skies.
So show’ry drops, when chilly tempests blow,
Thicken at first, then whiten into snow,
In balls congeal’d the rolling fleeces bound,
In solid hail result upon the ground.
Thus, whirl’d with nervous force through distant air,
The purple tide forsook his veins with fear;
All moisture left his limbs. Transform’d to stone,
In ancient days the craggy flint was known:
Still in the Euboean waves his front he rears,
Still the small rock in human form appears,
And still the name of hapless Lychas bears.

But now the hero of immortal birth
Fells Oete’s forests on the groaning earth;
A pile he builds; to Philoctetes’ care
He leaves his deathful instruments of war;
To him commits those arrows, which again
Shall see the bulwarks of the Trojan reign.
The son of Paeon lights the lofty pyre,
High round the structure climbs the greedy fire;
Placed on the top, thy nervous shoulders spread
With the Nemaean spoils, thy careless head
Raised on the knotty club, with look divine,
Here thou, dread hero of celestial line,
Wert stretch’d at ease; as when a cheerful guest,
Wine crown’d thy bowls, and flowers thy temples dress’d.

Now on all sides the potent flames aspire,
And crackle round those limbs that mock the fire.
A sudden terror seized the immortal host,
Who thought the world’s profess’d defender lost.
This when the Thunderer saw, with smiles he cries,
“ ’Tis from your fears, ye gods, my pleasures rise;
Joy swells my breast, that my all-ruling hand
O’er such a grateful people boasts command,
That you my suffering progeny would aid;
Though to his deeds this just respect be paid,
Me you’ve obliged. Be all your fears forborne,
The Oetean fires do thou, great hero, scorn.
Who vanquish’d all things shall subdue the flame
That part alone of gross material frame
Fire shall devour; while what from me he drew
Shall live immortal, and its force subdue
That, when he’s dead, I’ll raise to realms above;
May all the powers the righteous act approve!
If any god dissent, and judge too great
The sacred honours of the heavenly seat,
Ev’n he shall own his deeds deserve the sky,
Ev’n he reluctant shall at length comply.”
The assembled powers assent. No frown till now
Had mark’d with passion vengeful Juno’s brow.
Meanwhile whate’er was in the power of flame
Was all consumed; his body’s nervous frame
No more was known; of human form bereft,
The eternal part of Jove alone was left.
As an old serpent casts his scaly vest,
Writhes in the sun, in youthful glory dress’d,
So when Alcides mortal mould resign’d,
His better part enlarged, and grew refined;
August his visage shone; almighty Jove
In his swift car his honour’d offspring drove;
High o’er the hollow clouds the coursers fly,
And lodge the hero in the starry sky.

Atlas perceived the load of heaven’s new guest.
Revenge still rancour’d in Eurystheus’ breast
Against Alcides’ race. Alcmena goes
To Iole, to vent maternal woes;
Here she pours forth her grief, recounts the spoils
Her son had bravely reap’d in glorious toils.
This Iole, by Hercules’ commands,
Hyllus had loved, and join’d in nuptial bands.
Her swelling sides the teeming birth confess’d,
To whom Alcmena thus her speech address’d:
“O may the gods protect thee, in that hour,
When, midst thy throes, thou call’st the Ilithyian power!
May no delays prolong thy racking pain,
As when I sued for Juno’s aid in vain.

“When now Alcides’ mighty birth drew nigh,
And the tenth sign roll’d forward on the sky,
My sides extend with such a mighty load,
As Jove the parent of the burden show’d.
I could no more the increasing smart sustain,
My horror kindles to recount the pain;
Cold chills my limbs while I the tale pursue,
And now methinks I feel my pangs anew.
Seven days and nights amid incessant throes,
Fatigued with ills I lay, nor knew repose;
When lifting high my hands, in shrieks I pray’d,
Implored the gods, and call’d Lucina’s aid.
She came, but prejudiced, to give my fate
A sacrifice to vengeful Juno’s hate.
She hears the groaning anguish of my fits,
And on the altar at my door she sits.
O’er her left knee her crossing leg she cast,
Then knits her fingers close, and wrings them fast:
This stay’d the birth; in mutt’ring verse she pray’d;
The mutt’ring verse the unfinish’d birth delay’d.
Now with fierce struggles, raging with my pain,
At Jove’s ingratitude I rage in vain.
How did I wish for death! such groans I sent,
As might have made the flinty heart relent.

“Now the Cadmeian matrons round me press,
Offer their vows, and seek to bring redress;
Among the Theban dames Galanthis stands,
Strong-limb’d, red-hair’d, and just to my commands:
She first perceived that all these racking woes
From the persisting hate of Juno rose.
As here and there she pass’d, by chance she sees
The seated goddess; on her close-press’d knees
Her fast-knit hands she leans; with cheerful voice
Galanthis cries, ‘Whoe’er thou art, rejoice,
Congratulate the dame, she lies at rest,
At length the gods Alcmena’s prayers have bless’d.’
Swift from her seat the startled goddess springs;
No more conceal’d, her hands abroad she flings:
The charm unloosed, the birth my pangs relieved;
Galanthis’ laughter vex’d the power deceived.
Fame says, the goddess dragg’d the laughing maid
Fast by the hair; in vain her force essay’d
Her grovelling body from the ground to rear;
Changed to forefeet her shrinking arms appear:
Her hairy back her former hue retains,
The form alone is lost; her strength remains;
Who, since the lie did from her mouth proceed,
Shall from her pregnant mouth bring forth her breed;
Nor shall she quit her long-frequented home,
But haunt those houses where she loved to roam.”

She said, and for her lost Galanthis sighs;
When the fair consort of her son replies;
“Since you a servant’s ravish’d form bemoan,
And kindly sigh for sorrows not your own,
Let me (tears and grief permit) relate
A nearer wo, a sister’s stranger fate.
No nymph of all Oechalia could compare,
For beauteous form, with Dryope the fair;
Her tender mother’s only hope and pride
(Myself the offspring of a second bride),
This nymph, compress’d by him who rules the day,
Whom Delphi and the Delian isle obey,
Andraemon loved; and bless’d in all those charms
That pleased a god, succeeded to her arms.

“A lake there was, with shelving banks around,
Whose verdant summit fragrant myrtles crown’d.
Those shades, unknowing of the Fates, she sought,
And to the Naiads flowery garlands brought;
Her smiling babe (a pleasing charge) she press’d
Between her arms, and nourish’d at her breast.
Not distant far a watery lotus grows;
The spring was new, and all the verdant boughs,
Adorn’d with blossoms, promised fruits that vie
In glowing colours with the Tyrian die.
Of these she cropp’d, to please her infant son,
And I myself the same rash act had done,
But, lo! I saw (as near her side I stood)
The violated blossoms drop with blood;
Upon the tree I cast a frightful look,
The trembling tree with sudden horror shook:
Lotis the nymph (if rural tales be true),
As from Priapus’ lawless love she flew,
Forsook her form; and fixing here became
A flowery plant, which still preserves her name.

“This change unknown, astonish’d at the sight,
My trembling sister strove to urge the flight;
Yet first the pardon of the nymphs implored,
And those offended sylvan powers adored:
But when she backward would have fled, she found
Her stiff’ning feet were rooted to the ground:
In vain to free her fasten’d feet she strove,
And as she struggles only moves above;
She feels the encroaching bark around her grow
By slow degrees, and cover all below.
Surprised at this, her trembling hand she heaves
To rend her hair; her hand is fill’d with leaves;
Where late was hair, the shooting leaves are seen
To rise, and shade her with a sudden green.
The child Amphisus, to her bosom press’d,
Perceived a colder and a harder breast,
And found the springs, that ne’er till then denied
Their milky moisture, on a sudden dried.
I saw, unhappy, what I now relate,
And stood the helpless witness of thy fate:
Embraced thy boughs, the rising bark delay’d,
There wish’d to grow, and mingle shade with shade.

“Behold Andraemon and the unhappy sire
Appear, and for their Dryope inquire;
A springing tree for Dryope they find,
And print warm kisses on the panting rind;
Prostrate, with tears their kindred plant bedew,
And close embraced, as to the roots they grew;
The face was all that now remain’d of thee;
No more a woman, nor yet quite a tree:
Thy branches hung with humid pearls appear,
From every leaf distils a trickling tear;
And straight a voice, while yet a voice remains,
Thus through the trembling boughs in sighs com plains:

“ ‘If to the wretched any faith be given,
I swear by all the unpitying powers of heaven,
No wilful crime this heavy vengeance bred,
In mutual innocence our lives we led.
If this be false, let these new greens decay,
Let sounding axes lop my limbs away,
And crackling flames on all my honours prey.
Now from my branching arms this infant bear,
Let some kind nurse supply a mother’s care;
Yet to his mother let him oft be led,
Sport in her shades, and in her shades be fed;
Teach him, when first his infant voice shall frame
Imperfect words, and lisp his mother’s name,
To hail this tree, and say with weeping eyes,
“Within this plant my hapless parent lies:”
And when in youth he seeks the shady woods,
O, let him fly the crystal lakes and floods,
Nor touch the fatal flowers; but, warn’d by me,
Believe a goddess shrined in every tree.
My sire, my sister, and my spouse, farewell!
If in your breasts or love or pity dwell,
Protect your plant, nor let my branches feel
The browsing cattle, or the piercing steel.
Farewell! and since I cannot bend to join
My lips to yours, advance at least to mine.
My son, thy mother’s parting kiss receive,
While yet thy mother has a kiss to give.
I can no more, the creeping rind invades
My closing lips, and hides my head in shades:
Remove your hands; the bark shall soon suffice,
Without their aid, to seal these dying eyes.’
She ceased at once to speak, and ceased to be,
And all the nymph was lost within the tree:
Yet latent life through her new branches reign’d,
And long the plant a human heat retain’d.”

While Iole the fatal change declares,
Alcmena’s pitying hand oft wiped her tears.
Grief too stream’d down her cheeks; soon sorrow flies,
And rising joy the trickling moisture dries,
Lo Iolaus stands before their eyes.
A youth he stood, and the soft down began
O’er his smooth chin to spread, and promise man.
Hebe submitted to her husband’s prayers,
Instill’d new vigour, and restored his years.

Now from her lips a solemn oath had pass’d,
That Iolaus this gift alone should taste,
Had not just Themis thus maturely said
(Which check’d her vow, and awed the blooming maid):

“Thebes is embroil’d in war. Capaneus stands
Invincible, but by the Thunderer’s hands.
Ambition shall the guilty brothers4 fire,
Both rush to mutual wounds, and both expire.
The reeling earth shall ope her gloomy womb,
Where the yet breathing bard shall find his5 tomb.
The son6 shall bathe his hands in parents’ blood,
And in one act be both unjust and good.
Of home and sense deprived, where’er he flies,
The Furies, and his mother’s ghost, he spies.
His wife the fatal bracelet shall implore,
And Phegeius stain his sword in kindred gore.
Callirhoe shall then with suppliant prayer
Prevail on Jupiter’s relenting ear.
Jove shall with youth her infant sons inspire,
And bid their bosoms glow with manly fire.”

When Themis this with prescient voice had spoke,
Among the gods a various murmur broke;
Dissension rose in each immortal breast,
That one should grant what was denied the rest.
Aurora for her aged spouse complains,
And Ceres grieves for Jason’s freezing veins;
Vulcan would Erichthonius’ years renew;
Her future race the care of Venus drew,
She would Anchises’ blooming age restore;
A diff’rent care employ’d each heavenly power:
Thus various interests did their jars increase,
Till Jove arose: he spoke; their tumults cease.

“Is any rev’rence to our presence given,
Then why this discord ’mong the powers of heaven?
Who can the settled will of fate subdue?
’Twas by the Fates that Iolaus knew
A second youth. The Fates’ determined doom
Shall give Callirhoe’s race a youthful bloom.
Arms nor ambition can this power obtain;
Quell your desires; ev’n me the Fates restrain.
Could I their will control, no rolling years
Had Aeacus bent down with silver hairs;
Then Rhadamanthus still had youth possess’d,
And Minos with eternal bloom been bless’d.”
Jove’s words the synod moved; the powers give o’er,
And urge in vain unjust complaint no more.
Since Rhadamanthus’ veins now slowly flow’d,
And Aeacus and Minos bore the load;
Minos, who in the flower of youth and fame
Made mighty nations tremble at his name,
Infirm with age, the proud Miletus fears,
Vain of his birth, and in the strength of years;
And now regarding all his realms as lost,
He durst not force him from his native coast.
But you by choice, Miletus, fled his reign,
And thy swift vessel plough’d the Aegean main;
On Asiatic shores a town you frame,
Which still is honour’d with the founder’s name.
Here you Cyanee knew, the beauteous maid,
As on her father’s7 winding banks she stray’d:
Caunus and Byblis hence their lineage trace,
The double offspring of your warm embrace.

Let the sad fate of wretched Byblis prove
A dismal warning to unlawful love:
One birth gave being to the hapless pair,
But more was Caunus than a sister’s care;
Unknown she loved, for yet the gentle fire
Rose not in flames, nor kindled to desire.
’Twas thought no sin to wonder at his charms,
Hang on his neck, and languish in his arms.
Thus wing’d with joy fled the soft hours away,
And all the fatal guilt on harmless Nature lay.

But love (too soon from piety declined)
Insensibly depraved her yielding mind.
Dress’d she appears, with nicest art adorn’d,
And every youth, but her loved brother, scorn’d;
For him alone she labour’d to be fair,
And cursed all charms that might with hers compare.
’Twas she, and only she, must Caunus please,
Sick at her heart, yet knew not her disease:
She call’d him lord, for brother was a name
Too cold and dull for her aspiring flame;
And, when he spoke, if sister he replied,
“For Byblis change that frozen word,” she cried.
Yet waking still she watch’d her struggling breast,
And love’s approaches were in vain address’d,
Till gentle sleep an easy conquest made,
And by her side the conqueror was laid.
“Ah me!” she cried, “how monstrous do I seem!
Why these vile thoughts, and this ill-omen’d dream?
Envy herself (’tis true) must own his charms,
But what is beauty in a sister’s arms?
Oh! were I not that despicable she,
How bless’d, how pleased, how happy, should I be!
But unregarded now must bear my pain,
And but in dreams my wishes can obtain.
Oh! gentle Caunus, quit thy hated line,
Or let thy parents be no longer mine:
Oh! that in common all things were enjoy’d,
But those alone who have our hopes destroy’d.
Were I a princess, thou an humble swain,
The proudest kings should rival thee in vain.
It cannot be: alas! the dreadful ill
Is fix’d by fate, and he’s my brother still.
Hear me, ye gods! I must have friends in heaven,
For Jove himself was to a sister given:
But what are their prerogatives above,
To the short liberties of human love?
Fantastic thoughts! down, down, forbidden fires,
Or instant death extinguish my desires.
Strict virtue, then, with thy malicious leave
Without a crime, I may a kiss receive.
But say, should I in spite of laws comply,
Yet cruel Caunus might himself deny.
Yet why should youth, and charms like mine, despair?
Such fears ne’er startled the Aetolian pair;
No ties of blood could their full hopes destroy,
They broke through all for the prevailing joy;
And who can tell but Caunus too may be
Rack’d and tormented in his breast for me?
Like me, to the extremest anguish drove;
Like me, just waking from a dream of love?
But stay, O whither would my fury run?
What arguments I urge to be undone!
Away! fond Byblis, quench these guilty flames,
Caunus thy love but as a brother claims;
Yet had he first been touch’d with love of me,
The charming youth could I despairing see?
Oppress’d with grief, and dying by disdain?
Ah! no; too sure I should have eased his pain:
Since, then, if Caunus ask’d me, it were done,
Asking myself, what dangers can I run?
But canst thou ask, and see that right betray’d,
From Pyrrha down to thy whole sex convey’d?
That self-denying gift we all enjoy,
Of wishing to be won, yet seeming to be coy.
Well, then, for once, let a fond mistress woo,
The force of love no custom can subdue;
This frantic passion he by words shall know,
Soft as the melting heart from whence they flow.”
The pencil then in her fair hand she held,
By fear discouraged, but by love compell’d;
She writes, then blots, writes on, and blots again,
Likes it as fit, then razes it as vain;
Shame and assurance in her face appear,
And a faint hope just yielding to despair.
Sister was wrote and blotted, as a word
Which she, and Caunus too (she hoped) abhorr’d;
But now resolved to be no more controll’d,
By scrup’lous virtue, thus her grief she told:

“Thy lover, gentle Caunus, wishes thee
That health, which thou alone canst give to me.
O charming youth! the gift I ask bestow,
Ere thou the name of the fond writer know;
To thee without a name I would be known,
Since, knowing that, my frailty I must own.
Yet why should I my wretched name conceal,
When thousand instances my flames reveal?
Wan looks and weeping eyes have spoke my pain,
And sighs discharged from my heaved heart in vain:
Had I not wish’d my passion might be seen,
What could such fondness and embraces mean?
Yet (though extremest rage has rack’d my soul,
And raging fires in my parch’d bosom roll)
Be witness gods! how piously I strove
To rid my thoughts of this enchanting love.
But who could ’scape so fierce and sure a dart,
Aim’d at a tender, a defenceless heart?
Alas! what maid could suffer I have borne,
Ere the dire secret from my breast was torn;
To thee, a helpless, vanquish’d wretch I come;
’Tis you alone can save, or give my doom:
My life or death this moment you may choose,
Yet think, O think, no hated stranger sues,
No foe; but one, alas! too near allied,
And wishing still much nearer to be tied.
The forms of decency let age debate,
And virtue’s rules by their cold morals state;
Their ebbing joys give leisure to inquire,
And blame those noble flights our youth inspire:
O pardon and oblige a blushing maid,
Whose rage the pride of her vain sex betray’d,
Nor let my tomb thus mournfully complain⁠—
Here Byblis lies, by her loved Caunus slain.”

Forced here to end, she with a falling tear
Temper’d the pliant wax which did the signet bear
The curious cipher was impress’d by art,
But love had stamp’d one deeper in her heart.
Her page, a youth of confidence and skill
(Secret as night), stood waiting on her will;
Sighing, she cried, “Bear this, thou faithful boy,
To my sweet partner in eternal joy.”
Here a long pause her secret guilt confess’d;
And when, at length, she would have spoken the rest,
Half the dear name lay buried in her breast.

Thus, as he list’ned to her vain command,
Down fell the letter from her trembling hand.
The omen shock’d her soul. “Yet go,” she cried.
“Can a request from Byblis be denied?”

To the Maeandrian youth this message’s borne;
The half-read lines by his fierce rage were torn.
“Hence,” he exclaim’d, “thou vile accomplice, hence;
Enjoy the triumph of thy great offence.
Thy instant death will but divulge her shame,
Or thy life’s blood should quench the guilty flame.”
Frighted, from threat’ning Caunus he withdrew,
And with the dreadful news to his lost mistress flew.
The sad repulse so struck the wounded fair,
Her sense was buried in her wild despair:
Pale was her visage, as the ghastly dead,
And her scared soul from the sweet mansion fled;
Yet with her life renew’d, her love returns,
And faintly thus her cruel fate she mourns:
“ ’Tis just, ye gods! was my false reason blind
To write a secret of this tender kind?
With female craft, I should at first have strove,
By dubious hints to sound his distant love,
And tried those useful, though dissembled, arts,
Which women practise on disdainful hearts.
I should have watch’d whence the black storm might rise,
Ere I had trusted the unfaithful skies.
Now on the rolling billows I am toss’d,
And with extended sails on the blind shelves am lost.
Did not indulgent heaven my deem foretell,
When from my hand the fatal letter fell?
What madness seized my soul, and urged me on,
To take the only course to be undone?
I could myself have told the moving tale,
With such alluring grace as must prevail;
Then had his eyes beheld my blushing fears,
My rising sighs, and my descending tears.
Round his dear neck these arms I then had spread,
And, if rejected, at his feet been dead:
If singly these had not his thoughts inclined,
Yet all united would have shock’d his mind.
Perhaps my careless page might be in fault,
And, in a luckless hour, the fatal message brought;
Business and worldly thoughts might fill his breast,
Sometimes ev’n love itself may be an irksome guest;
He could not else have treated me with scorn,
For Caunus was not of a tigress born,
Nor steel, nor adamant, has fenced his heart;
Like mine, ’tis naked to the burning dart.

“Away, false fears! he must, he shall be mine,
In death alone I will my claim resign:
’Tis vain to wish my written crime unknown,
And for my guilt much vainer to atone.”
Repulsed and baffled, fiercer still she burns,
And Caunus, with disdain, her impious love returns.
He saw no end of her injurious flame,
And fled his country to avoid the shame.
Forsaken Byblis, who had hopes no more,
Burst out in rage, and her loose robes she tore;
With her fair hands she smote her tender breast,
And to the wond’ring world her love confess’d.
O’er hills and dales, o’er rocks and streams she flew,
But still in vain did her wild love pursue.
Wearied, at length, on the cold earth she fell,
And now in tears alone could her sad story tell.
Relenting gods in pity fix’d her there,
And to a fountain turn’d the weeping fair.

The fame of this, perhaps, through Crete had flown,
But Crete had newer wonders of her own,
In Iphis changed; for near the Gnossian bounds
(As loud report the miracle resounds),
At Phaestus dwelt a man of honest blood,
But meanly born, and not so rich as good,
Esteem’d and loved by all the neighbourhood,
Who, to his wife, before the time assign’d
For childbirth came, thus bluntly spoke his mind:
“If heaven,” said Lygdus, “will vouchsafe to hear,
I have but two petitions to prefer,
Short pains for thee, for me a son and heir.
Girls cost as many throes in bringing forth;
Besides, when born, they prove of little worth,
Weak, puling things, unable to sustain
Their share of labour, and their bread to gain.
If, therefore, thou a creature shalt produce,
Of so great charges, and so little use
(Bear witness, heaven, with what reluctancy),
Her helpless innocence I doom to die.”
He said; and tears the common grief display,
Of him who bade, and her who must obey.

Yet Telethusa still persists, to find
Fit arguments to move a father’s mind,
To extend his wishes to a larger scope,
And in one vessel not confine his hope.
Lygdus continues hard: her time drew near,
And she her heavy load could scarcely bear,
When slumbering, in the latter shades of night,
Before the approaches of returning light,
She saw, or thought she saw, before her bed,
A glorious train, and Isis at their head:
Her moony horns were on her forehead placed,
And yellow sheaves her shining temples graced;
A mitre, for a crown, she wore on high;
The dog and dappled bull were waiting by;
Osiris, sought along the banks of Nile:
The silent god; the sacred crocodile;
And, last, a long procession moving on
With timbrels, that assist the labouring moon.
Her slumbers seem’d dispell’d, and, broad awake,
She heard a voice that thus distinctly spake:
“My votary, thy babe from death defend,
Nor fear to save whate’er the gods will send.
Delude with art thy husband’s dire decree;
When danger calls, repose thy trust on me,
And know thou hast not served a thankless deity.”
This promise made, with night the goddess fled;
With joy the woman wakes and leaves her bed,
Devoutly lifts her spotless hands on high,
And prays the powers their gifts to ratify.

Now grinding pains proceed to bearing throes,
Till its own weight the burden did disclose.
’Twas of the beauteous kind, and brought to light
With secrecy, to shun the father’s sight;
The indulgent mother did her care employ,
And pass’d it on her husband for a boy.
The nurse was conscious of the fact alone.
The father paid his vows as for a son,
And call’d him Iphis, by a common name,
Which either sex with equal right may claim.
Iphis his grandsire was; the wife was pleased,
Of half the fraud by Fortune’s favour eased.
The doubtful name was used without deceit,
And truth was cover’d with a pious cheat;
The habit show’d a boy, the beauteous face
With manly fierceness mingled female grace.

Now thirteen years of age were swiftly run,
When the fond father thought the time drew on
Of settling in the world his only son.
Ianthe was his choice, so wondrous fair,
Her form alone with Iphis could compare,
A neighbour’s daughter of his own degree,
And not more bless’d with fortune’s goods than he.

They soon espoused; for they with ease were join’d,
Who were before contracted in the mind;
Their age the same, their inclinations too,
And bred together, in one school they grew.
Thus, fatally disposed to mutual fires,
They felt, before they knew, the same desires;
Equal their flame, unequal was their care,
One loved with hope, one languish’d in despair;
And, scarce refraining tears, “Alas,” said she,
“What issue of my love remains for me!
How wild a passion works within my breast!
With what prodigious flames am I possess’d!
Could I the care of Providence deserve,
Heaven must destroy me, if it would preserve;
And that’s my fate, or sure it would have sent
Some usual evil for my punishment:
Not this unkindly curse, to rage and burn,
Where nature shows no prospect of return.

“And yet no guards against our joys conspire,
No jealous husband hinders our desire,
My parents are propitious to my wish,
And she herself consenting to the bliss;
All things concur to prosper our design,
All things to prosper any love but mine.
Heaven has been kind, as far as Heaven can be,
Our parents with our own desires agree;
But Nature, stronger than the gods above,
Refuses her assistance to my love;
She sets the bar that causes all my pain:
One gift refused makes all their bounty vain
And now the happy day is just at hand
To bind our hearts in Hymen’s holy band.”

Thus lovesick Iphis her vain passion mourns,
With equal ardour fair Ianthe burns,
Invoking Hymen’s name, and Juno’s power,
To speed the work, and haste the happy hour.

She hopes, while Telethusa fears the day,
And strives to interpose some new delay,
Now feigns a sickness, now is in a fright
For this bad omen, or that boding sight.
But having done whate’er she could devise,
And emptied all her magazine of lies,
The time approach’d, the next ensuing day
The fatal secret must to light betray.
Then Telethusa had recourse to prayer,
She, and her daughter, with dishevell’d hair;
Trembling with fear, great Isis they adored,
Embraced her altar, and her aid implored.

“Fair queen, who dost on fruitful Egypt smile,
Who sway’st the sceptre of the Pharian isle,
And sevenfold falls of disemboguing Nile,
Relieve, in this our last distress,” she said,
“A suppliant mother, and a mournful maid.
Thou, goddess, thou wert present to my sight;
Reveal’d I saw thee by thy own fair light;
I saw thee, in my dream, as now I see,
With all thy marks of awful majesty,
The glorious train that compass’d thee around,
And heard the hollow timbrels’ holy sound.
Thy words I noted, which I still retain,
Let not thy sacred oracles be vain.
That Iphis lives, that I myself am free
From shame and punishment, I owe to thee.
On thy protection all our hopes depend;
Thy counsel saved us, let thy power defend.”

Her tears pursued her words, and, while she spoke,
The goddess nodded, and her altar shook;
The temple doors, as with a blast of wind,
Were heard to clap; the lunar horns, that bind
The brows of Isis, cast a blaze around,
The trembling timbrel made a murm’ring sound.

Some hopes these happy omens did impart,
Forth went the mother with a beating heart,
Not much in fear, nor fully satisfied;
But Iphis follow’d with a larger stride:
The whiteness of her skin forsook her face,
Her looks imbolden’d with an awful grace;
Her features and her strength together grew,
And her long hair to curling locks withdrew;
Her sparkling eyes with manly vigour shone;
Big with her voice, audacious was her tone.
The maid becomes a youth. No more delay
Your vows, but look, and confidently pay.
Their gifts the parents to the temple bear,
The votive tables this inscription wear:
“Iphis, the man, has to the goddess paid
The vows that Iphis offer’d when a maid.”

Now, when the star of day had shown his face,
Venus and Juno with their presence grace
The nuptial rites, and Hymen, from above,
Descending to complete their happy love;
The gods of marriage lend their mutual aid,
And the fond youth obtains the lovely maid.