Glaucus, the haunter of the swollen waves,
Had passed by Etna, heaped on the giant's head,
Passed the unplowed, unharrowed fields which owed
No debt to any cattle; he went on
Past Regium's walls, past Zancle, through the straits
Dangerous to mariners from either land,
Ausonia or Sicily, and he swam,
Untiring, through the Tuscan sea, and came
To the grassy hills and court of that enchantress,
Circe, the daughter of the Sun, where beasts,
Or phantoms of them, thronged. He saw her there,
Gave and received a welcome, and went on:
"Goddess, have pity on a god, I pray you!
No one but you can help me, if I seem
Worthy of help. Better than any man,
I know the magic power of herbs and grasses,
For I was changed by them. What caused my passion
You may already know: on Italy's coast,
Across from Messina's walls, I have seen Scylla.
I am ashamed to tell the promises,
The prayers, the flattering words I wasted on her.
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But you, if there is power in your charms,
Sing me a charm, or, if the herbs are stronger,
Use their tried strength. To heal these wounds, to cure me,
Is more than I expect, but let her suffer
Part of this heat that burns me." No one's heart
Was ever more susceptible than Circe's,
Why, no one knows: it may be that the cause
Lay in her very nature, or maybe Venus,
Angry about her father's gossiping,
Had made her what she was. She answered Glaucus:
"You would be doing better if you followed
Someone who wanted you and prayed for you,
Possessed with equal passion. You were worthy,
Surely you were, to be pursued; you could be,
And, if you give the least excuse, you will be.
Oh, never doubt it; never doubt your gift,
The power to charm: I, goddess though I am,
The daughter of the shining Sun, the mistress
Of charms and herbs, beg to be yours. Scorn her
Who looks on you with scorn, repay with love
The one who loves you, and so repay us both."
But Glaucus answered: "Leaves will grow on the sea,
And sea-weed flourish on the mountain-tops,
Before I change my love, while Scylla lives."
Circe was angry; she could not harm the god,
And would not harm the god, because she loved him,
And turned her wrath on her successful rival.
Offended, hurt, she crushed together herbs
Whose juices had a dreadful power, and, singing
Spells she had learned from Hecate, she mixed them.
Then she put on a robe of blue, she left
Her palace-halls, through beasts that fawned around her,
And went to Regium, opposite Zancle's coast.
Over the boiling tide she sped, dry-shod,
As if on solid ground. There was a pool,
Not very large, into a deep bow curving,
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A peaceful place, where Scylla loved to come,
Where she would flee from the heat of sea and sky
When sun burned hot at noon and shadows dwindled.
And Circe dyed this pool with bitter poisons,
Poured liquids brewed from evil roots, and murmured,
With lips well-skilled in magic, and thrice nine times,
A charm, obscure with labyrinthine language.
There Scylla came; she waded into the water,
Waist-deep, and suddenly saw her loins disfigured
With barking monsters, and at first she could not
Believe that these were parts of her own body.
She tried to drive them off, the barking creatures,
And flees in panic, but what she runs away from
She still takes with her; feeling for her thighs,
Her legs, her feet, she finds, in all these parts,
The heads of dogs, jaws gaping wide, and hellish.
She stands on dogs gone mad, and loins and belly
Are circled by those monstrous forms. And Glaucus
Wept at the sight, fled the embrace of Circe,
Too cruel with her potent herbs, but Scylla
Remained there fixed, and when a chance was given
To vent her hate on Circe, she robbed Ulysses
Of all his company, and would have wrecked
The Trojan ships as well, but she was changed,
Before their coming, to a rock, which stands there,
Dreaded by sailors, to this very day.
The Trojan ships, without mishap, made voyage
Past Scylla and Charybdis, almost reached
Ausonian shores, when the wind veered and drove them
To Libya's coast, where the Sidonian queen,
Dido, received their king in home and heart,
And could not bear his going, but built a pyre,
Pretending these were sacred rites, and fell
Dying, upon the sword. Herself deceived,
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She deceived others. And Aeneas left
The new town on the sandy shore, went back
To Sicily, land of Eryx, and his friend
The King Acestes, and he paid due honors
There to Anchises' tomb, and loosed again
The ships that Iris, messenger of Juno,
Had almost burned; they passed the Aeolian isles,
The lands that reeked with sulphur, the rocky coast
The Sirens haunted. In those seas his ship
Had lost his pilot, but they coasted on
Past Inarime, Prochyte, Pithecusae,
A town on a barren hill, named for its natives,
Where once the father of the gods, who hated
Cecropian tricks and lies, and all the crimes
That treacherous race committed, changed the men
To ugly beasts, human, and yet not human,
With stunted limbs, snub-nosed and deeply wrinkled,
And sent them here, with their bodies covered over
With long and yellow hair, but he took from them
The power of speech, the use of tongues, and left them
No syllables except hoarse grating sounds
Useful, no more for perjury, but protesting.
>From there, he left Parthenope's walled city
On his right hand, and, opposite, he passed
Misenus' tomb, and came to Cumae's shores,
Marsh-lands, and found the caverns of the Sibyl,
The long-lived prophetess, and prayed for passage
Through Hell's dark realm to see his father's shade.
She kept her eyes cast down, it seemed forever,
But lifted them at last, and with the god
Possessing her, replied: "Great are the things
You ask for, O great hero, but your hand
The sword has tested, and the fire has proved
The power of your devotion. Have no fear.
Your wish is granted, Trojan; with my guidance
You shall behold Elysium, the last realms
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Of all the world, and you shall see the shade
Of your loved father. Every path lies open
To virtue." And she showed him, deep in the forest,
The golden bough, and he, obedient, took it
At her command, and saw the dreadfulness
Of Hell, and his ancestral shades, among them
The aged ghost of the great-souled Anchises.
He learned the laws that govern there, what dangers
He had to face in wars to come, and upward
Retraced his steps, and as he trod that road,
Dreadful in dimness, he beguiled the journey
In conversation with his guide. "I know not,"
He said, "if you are goddess, or a maiden
Most pleasing to the gods. I know that I
Will hold you as a goddess, and I know
I owe my life to you, since by your will
I have approached Death's world, seen it, returning
In safety from that world of Death. For this,
When I have come again to the upper regions,
I promise you a temple, and incense burning
In everlasting honor for your service."
Sighing, she answered: "I am not a goddess:
Never consider any mortal woman
Worthy of holy incense. Still, I would not
Leave you in ignorance; I once was offered
Eternal life, if I had let Apollo
Take me, still virgin. While he still was hopeful,
Seeking to bend my will with gifts, he told me
Choose what you will, O maid, and you shall have it.
I pointed to a heap of sand and uttered
The foolish prayer that my years might be as many
As there were sand-grains in that mound. I should have
Asked that those years should be forever young,
But I forgot. He granted me the years,
And promised endless youth if he could have me,
But I refused Apollo, and no man
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Has ever had me. Now my happier days
Are gone, and sick old age comes tottering on,
And this I must endure, for a long time.
I am seven hundred years of age; I have
Three hundred still to go, before I equal
The tally of those grains of sand. The time
Will come when I shall shrivel to almost nothing,
Weigh almost nothing, when no one, seeing me,
Would ever think a god had found me lovely.
Even Apollo, it may be, will see me
And not know who I am, or, if he knew me,
Would say he never loved me. To such change
I am borne onward, till no eye can see me,
And I am known by voice alone; my voice
The Fates will leave me."
Along the hollow way
The Sibyl told her story, and they came
Out of the Stygian world, again to Cumae,
Where the due rites were given, and the hero
Went on to shores that later bore the name
Of his old nurse, Caieta. There he found
Macareus, an old comrade of Ulysses,
Who stayed there after years of wandering.
Here two Greeks met again: Macareus
Once more saw Achaemenides, and knew him,
Long since given up for lost, among the rocks
Of Etna. "Now what god, what chance," he asked him,
"Has saved you, Achaemenides? How is it
A Greek sails in a Trojan ship? And whither?"
The other, his own man once more no longer
In rags and tatters, garments pinned together
With thorns, made answer: "May I look again
On Polyphemus and those open jaws
Dripping with human blood, if ever I call
My home and Ithaca more friendly to me,
More of a haven than this ship has been,
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Whose captain, kinder to me than a father,
I owe more gratitude than I can pay.
I speak, I breathe, I see the stars and sunlight,
Because he saved me: should I not be thankful?
Because of him my life escaped the jaws
Of Polyphemus; were I, now, to leave
The light of life, I should, at least, be buried
In a decent tomb, and not that monster's belly.
What were my feelings (except that fear took from me
All sense, all feeling) when I was left behind
And watched you making for the open seas?
I would have called, but feared to make a sound
That might betray me; even Ulysses' cry
Was almost fatal to your ship. I saw him,
The giant, when he wrenched a rock from the mountain
And hurled it out to sea, saw him let fly
Great stones, as if his arms were catapults,
And feared that the splash of the stones, or the wind
of their motion
Would sink the ship; I forgot I was not in her.
And while you fled from certain death, he, groaning,
Rambled all over Etna, groped through woodlands,
Bumped blindly into rocks, stretched bleeding arms
Out over the sea, and cursed the Greeks, and muttered:
'Oh, for some piece of luck, to bring Ulysses
Within my reach again, or one of his comrades,
Any one, for my rage to feed on, vitals
To eat, body to tear apart, and blood
To flood my throat, and mangled limbs to quiver
My blindness would be nothing then, or nearly.'
He said much more, and I was pale with horror
Watching that face, still smeared with blood, the eye
With no sight in it, the cruel hands, the limbs,
The beard, matted with human blood. Death stood there,
[page 345]
The least of all my troubles. I imagined
He would catch me any minute, take my flesh
Into his own, and I could see the time
When he snatched up two friends of mine together
And smashed them on the ground, and lay across them
Like a lion on his prey, gauming and crunching
The marrow bones, the limbs with life still in them.
I trembled and my blood ran cold, to watch him
Chewing and slavering and drooling blood
With bits of flesh mixed in the wine, and knew
My time was coming. For many days I hid,
Trembling at every sound, fearing my death
Yet longing for it, driving off my hunger
With acorns, grass and leaves. I had no help,
No hope, forsaken, doomed to suffering
And death. And, after a long time, I saw,
Far off, this ship, gestured to them Come save me!
Ran down to the shore, I moved their hearts, a Greek
Was taken on a Trojan ship! Now tell me
What happened to you, your leader, and the band
You sailed the seas with?" And Macareus told him
How Aeolus ruled the Tuscan waters, keeping
His winds imprisoned in a sack, and gave it
As present to Ulysses. For nine days
The wind blew fair astern; they sighted land,
And in the morning, overcome by greed,
Thinking the sack held gold, they loosed the cords,
And the winds blew them back where they had started.
"Then," said Macareus, "we came to the old city
Of Lestrygonian Lamus; I was sent,
With two companions, to their king. One comrade
And I myself reached safety, but the third
Was caught, and his blood dyed red the wicked mouths
Of those wild Lestrygonians. Antiphates,
The king, came after us; on came his mob,
Hurling great stones and beams, to sink our ships,
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To drown our men. One ship escaped, and I
Was in it, with Ulysses, and we sorrowed
For our companions lost, and came at last
To the land that you can see from here, far off.
Far off, believe me, is the way to see it!
I warn you, son of Venus, righteous Trojan,
Not enemy, now that the wars are over,
Keep far from Circe's shores. We moored our ship
Beside the shore, with no desire of going
Inland for any distance: we remembered,
Too well, Antiphates and Polyphemus.
But the lots gave us orders: we were chosen,
I and Polites, to approach the palace,
Eurylochus went also, and Elpenor,
Who liked his wine too much, and eighteen others.
We came to Circe's city, and she stood there
Within her courts, and a thousand wolves and bears
And lionesses met us, and we feared them,
For no good reason, for, it seemed, they would not
Make even a single scratch upon our bodies.
They even wagged their tails, and fawned upon us
As we went on, until the serving-women
Led us through halls of marble to their mistress.
She sat there on her throne, in shining robes,
With golden mantle, and the place was lovely,
And nymphs and nereids were waiting on her,
Carding no fleece, spinning no wool, but only
Sorting out plants, arranging, from confusion,
In separate baskets, the bright-colored flowers,
The different herbs. She told them what to do,
Knew what each leaf was for, which ones would blend,
Weighing her simples. When she saw us coming,
She gave us welcome, and she smiled upon us,
Gave all we asked for, and she bade them bring us
Barley and wine and honey and curdled cheese,
All in a sweetish brew, and in the sweetness,
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Were hidden drugs. We took the cups she offered,
And we were thirsty, and we drank them down,
And then the cruel goddess touched our foreheads
With her magic wand--I am ashamed to tell you,
But I will tell--I had bristles sprouting on me,
I could not speak, but only grunting sounds
Came out instead of words, and my face bent over
To see the ground. I felt my mouth grow harder,
I had a snout instead of a nose, my neck
Swelled with great muscles, and the hand which lifted
The cup to my lips made footprints on the ground.
They shut me in a pigsty with the others.
Her magic worked on all of us but one,
Eurylochus; he had refused the potion.
Had he not done so, I should even now
Be in the bristly herd, but he told Ulysses
Of our disaster, and that hero came
To Circe to avenge us. He had a flower
Cyllenius had given him, called moly,
White, but the root is black, and safe with this
And safe with warnings from the gods he came,
Entered the palace, but when the drink was offered,
He struck the wand aside, and drew his sword.
That frightened Circe; vows were made; she took him
Into her chamber, and for wedding gift,
Since that was what the bridegroom asked, she gave him
His friends restored. We were sprinkled with some juices,
Better ones, from some herbs or other; she turned
Her wand around, and tapped our foreheads lightly,
Chanting her counter-charm, and as she chanted,
The bristles dropped, feet were no longer cloven,
We had our shoulders again, and arms came back
To their right places. We were all in tears,
So was Ulysses, as we all clung to him,
And the first words we spoke were those of thanks.
We stayed a year there, plenty long enough
[page 348]
For me to see a lot of things, to hear
All kinds of stories. Here is one of many
I heard from one of four, those nymphs, I mean,
Whose tasks I told you of. One day when Circe
Was with Ulysses somewhere, this nymph showed me
A snow-white marble statue, a young man
With a woodpecker on his head, and many garlands
Hanging about it--this was in a temple.
I asked her who it was, why he was worshipped,
And why he wore a bird instead of helmet.
'Listen, Macareus; learn from what I tell you
How strong my lady's magic is. But listen!
Picus was Saturn's son; he was once a king
In Italy, a passionate admirer
Of horses useful in war. The statue tells you
About his form, but in his living presence
He was much more beautiful, and his spirit equalled
His grace of body. He was hardly twenty
When his good looks brought all the Dryads to him,
And all the nymphs of the fountains, all the naiads
>From Albula's stream or Numicus or Anio,
>From Almo, shortest of rivers, and rapid Nar
>From shady Farfar, from Diana's pool,
>From other lakes nearby. He scorned them all
And loved one nymph alone, Venilia's daughter
By the god from Thessaly, the two-faced Janus.
She was ripe for marriage, and she came to Picus,
Most dear of all her suitors. Rare indeed
Her beauty was, but rarer still her gift
For singing; that was why they called her Canens,
The Singing Girl. Her song would move the woods,
The rocks, would tame wild beasts, would stop the rivers,
Would stay the wandering birds. One day she went
Singing her songs across the fields, and Picus
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Had gone to hunt wild boars. His war-horse pranced
Beneath him as he rode, in crimson mantle
With brooch of gold, and javelins held ready.
And Circe came to those same woods, to gather
Fresh herbs on those rich hills; she had left the regions
Called by her name. She was watching from a thicket
And saw the youth, and she was struck with wonder;
The herbs she had gathered fell to the ground; she burned,
All through, with fire, but she controlled her passion,
Managed, almost, to get her thoughts in order,
Was ready, in fact, to tell him what she wanted,
But always he rode off, or other people
Got in the way. "But you will not escape me,"
She said, "not even on the wings of the wind,
Not if I know myself, unless my magic
Of herbs has gone, and my charms have lost their virtue.'
And so she made a phantom boar, an image
With no real substance, and she gave it orders
To cross the trail before the prince, to hide
In a grove where fallen trees lay thick, and forest
Too dense for horse to enter. No sooner said
Than done, and Picus, knowing no better, followed
The shadow of his prey, leaped down, pursuing
The vanity of his hope, on foot, a wanderer
In woodland depths. She made up prayers and said them,
Worshipping unknown gods with unknown singing,
Her customary magic, which would cover
The white moon's face and darken the sun with cloud.
So now the sky was darkened and a mist
Rose thick from the ground, and Picus' hunting comrades
Wandered blind ways. The time and place were fitting
And "Oh," she said, "most beautiful youth, I beg you
By those bright eyes that have captured mine, that beauty
Which makes a goddess subject, heed my passion,
Be son-in-law to the Sun, do not be cruel
Scorning his daughter Circe." But he repelled her
[page 350]
Fiercely, almost, and in answer to her pleading
Replied: "Whoever you are, I am not yours; another
Has taken and holds my love, and she will have it,
I hope, forever, and I shall do no cheating
While the Fates keep Canens for me." She tried again,
Again, in vain, and then exclaimed in anger:
"You shall be punished for this, you shall not be given
To Canens any more, and you will learn
What a woman, scorned in love, can do, that woman
Being Circe, loved and scorned!" Twice to the west
She turned, and twice to the east; three times she touched him
With magic wand, and sang three spells. He turned
To run, and was amazed that he ran more swiftly
Than ever before, and he saw wings on his body,
And, angry at this new bird, Picus, coming
Into the Latin woods, he struck at the oak-trees
With his hard beak, and his anger wounded the branches,
And his wings were the color of his crimson mantle
And the golden brooch he wore was changed to feathers,
His neck encircled by a band of orange,
Nothing he had before was left to Picus
Except his name.
Meanwhile his comrades, calling
Across the fields in vain, finding him nowhere,
Came upon Circe, for the air had cleared,
The clouds were driven away by wind and sunshine,
And knew what she had done, and told her, bluntly,
Their king must be returned, and their spears were ready
For an attack upon her, but she sprinkled
Poisonous juices on them, and called forth
Tight and the gods of Night from Hell and Chaos,
Wailing to Hecate in long-drawn crying,
And the woods leaped from their place, and the ground
rumbled,
The trees grew white, and the grass was clotted red
Where the drops of poison fell, and stones, it seemed,
[page 351]
Made hoarse and bellowing sounds, dogs bayed, and the
ground
Crawled loathsome with black snakes, and the thin phantoms,
The silent dead, fluttered around. The men
Trembled and wondered, and she touched their faces,
Trembling and wondering, with her wand; no man
Was any longer man; they all were beasts,
All different, all horrible.
'It was evening
By now, and Canens, longing, watching, waited
Her lord's return, in vain. Her slaves, her people,
Bore the bright torches through the woods to find him,
And Canens wept, and tore her hair, and beat
Her bosom, but that was not enough: she searched
With a mad rushing or vain wandering over
The Latin fields, over the hills, through valleys,
Sleepless and fasting, wherever chance directed,
For seven days. Tiber was last to see her,
Grief-stained and travel-worn, resting her body
Along his bank, weeping, and crying faintly
In dying melody like the swan. Her marrow
Dissolved, and into the thin air she vanished,
But people know her story still, and the place
Keeps the name Canens, given by ancient Muses.'
Many such things (Macareus said) I heard
And saw through that long year. We were slow and lazy
>From our long idleness, and had no relish
For voyage when the order came, for Circe
Had warned us of the perils of the ocean,
The doubtful sea-lanes, the tremendous reaches.
I was afraid to go, and I admit it,
And so I stayed here."
Somewhere on this coast
The marble urn received Caieta's ashes,
Nurse of Aeneas, and her tomb was graven
With a brief epitaph: Here I, Caieta,
[page 352]
Saved from Greek flame, was burned with proper fire
Through my dear son's devotion.
They loosed the cables
>From that grassy shore, kept far from the treacherous island,
Made for the woody coast where shadowed Tiber
Roils yellow to the sea, and there Aeneas
Won a new bride and kingdom; there was warfare
With a fierce race, and violent Turnus battled
To keep his promised bride. Etruria clashed
In arms with Latium, victory was hard
To win through that long doubt, and both sides needed
To go for foreign aid, though many guarded
Rutulian and Trojan camps. Aeneas
Found help from Evander; Venulus in vain
Appealed to Diomedes. That Greek hero
Had built a city, Arpi, where he ruled
Lands that had come to him as marriage portion,
But when, at Turnus' order, Venulus
Asked for his aid, he said he could not grant it,
He had too little strength, he would not risk
Either himself or his bride's people in battle,
All his own warriors were gone. "I will tell you
The truth," he said, "much as I hate to tell it;
Believe me, these are no trumped-up excuses."
So he went on: "After high Troy came down
In fire, and the burned walls fed the Greek hunger,
And after Ajax, Oileus' son, had ravished
The virgin priestess and brought down upon us
The virgin goddess' anger, made us ail
Pay for what he alone had done, we were driven
Over the angry waters, under lightning,
Through storm and dark, the rage of sky and sea,
[page 353]
Until we reached Caphereus, the summit
Of all our woes. I can sum it up by saying
That even Priam might have pitied us.
Minerva saved me from the waves, but I
Was driven once again from my home in Argos,
And that was Venus' doing; she remembered
The old wound I had given her, she took
Her vengeance, and on land and sea I suffered
So much that over and over I called happy
Those who had drowned, and wished I had been with them.
My comrades, too, were weary, begged me end
This wandering, but one of them, named Acmon,
Hot-tempered anyway, and even more so
>From all we had been through, exclaimed in anger:
'What is there left to bear, O patient heroes?
What more can Venus do, even if she wants to?
As long as there is something left to fear,
There is room on us for wounds; but when the worst
Has happened, fear is trampled underfoot.
We are at last secure. So let her hear us,
Let her hate us, as I know she does, but still
We scorn her hatred, and her great power stands
--Or does it?--great before us.' So did Acmon,
Insulting Venus, rouse her former anger.
Only a few approved him; all the others,
The most of us, rebuked him, and he tried
To answer back, but both his voice and throat
Grew thin, his hair was feathers, and feathers covered
His different neck, and breast, and back; his arms
Grew heavier plumage, and his elbows curved
Into light wing-joints, and between his toes
Were webs, and his face grew hard, like horn, and ended
In a sharp beak. They looked at him in wonder,
Lycus and Idas, Nycteus, Rhexenor,
And while they wondered, all of them were like him,
Flying and flapping their wings around the rowers.
[page 354]
What kind of birds they were I could not tell you,
Something like swans, at least of snowy color.
And now, as Daunus' son-in-law, I have
Hard work enough, with the few companions left me,
Holding this settlement and these dry acres."
So Venulus went back, and on his journey
Saw a dark cavern, under forest shadow,
Frail reeds around it, where the half-goat Pan
Lives now, but at another time the dwelling
Of nymphs, whom an Apulian shepherd frightened,
But they came back again, less fearful, scorning
This rude pursuer, and took up their dancing
All stepping light together, and he mocked them
With his clod-hopping tread, and added insults
And dirty words, and kept it up till over
His mouth came wood: he is now a tree, and people
Can tell what kind of fellow he was when living.
You can tell them by their product. The wild olive
Keeps his tongue's bitterness in its bitter berries,
They have the sharpness of the words he uttered.
Hearing the news that they could find no aid
In Diomedes, still the Latins fought
The war with their own strength; much blood was spilled
On either side. Turnus came on with torches
Against the Trojan ships, spared by the waves,
And fearful, now, of fire. Oakum and pitch
Were fuel to the flames, and masts and sails
Were blazing, and thwarts were smoldering, but a goddess,
Cybele, holy mother, knew those ships
Had come from Ida's summit, and remembered.
Her cymbals clashed in the air, and music shrilled
>From boxwood flutes, and drawn by lions she came
[page 355]
Riding the yielding air. "In vain, O Turnus,
You hurl those brands!" she cried. "I shall save those vessels
Born in my holy groves!" And while she spoke
Rain followed after thunder, and bouncing hail,
And the winds worked confusion over the waters,
Wild dissonance in the air. The cables sundered,
The ships dove under water, and their wood softened,
Turned into flesh, the prows were heads, the oars
Were toes and swimming legs: what had been body
Was body still, and the deep keel was backbone,
Rigging was hair, and sail-yards arms, but still
They kept their sea-green color, and as naiads
Went playing through the waves they used to fear,
Daughters of mountains they have long forgotten.
But they recalled the perils of the deep,
Their sufferings by sea, and speed the voyage
For storm-tossed ships, save those that carry Grecians.
For they remember Troy and her disaster
And hate all Greeks; they were glad to see the timbers
That marked Ulysses' shipwreck; they were happy
When Alcinous' vessel turned to stone, and rock
Grew where the wood had been.
After that change had come
Upon the fleet, men hoped that such a portent
Might make the Latins end the war; but no,
The war went on: both sides brought in their gods
To aid them, and they had another blessing,
As good as any god--they had their courage.
Not for a kingdom, dowry, a bride, or sceptre,
They fought, but victory only, and the shame
Of losing kept them fighting, but at last
Venus saw Turnus fall, and her son's arms
Victorious at last. And Ardea fell,
A mighty town while Turnus lived, but swords
Destroyed it, and warm ashes hid its ruins,
And from that blackened heap a bird flew up,
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Seen for the first time then, and beat its wings
Out of the soot. The sound it made, its thinness,
Its pallor, were symbols of a city conquered,
And the bird keeps the city's name: Ardea
Means heron, to some people.
All the gods,
Even vindictive Juno, felt their anger
Come to an end, so mighty was the power
Aeneas' goodness had, and, since Iulus
Was well established in the sight of Fortune,
Venus' heroic son was ripe for Heaven.
She had gone to all the gods, had thrown her arms
Around her father's neck, pleading: "Dear father,
Never unkind to me, indulge me now
And grant to my Aeneas, your own grandson
Through me, some godhead, howsoever lowly,
So long as you grant something. It is enough
Once to have seen the realms no man can love,
Once to have passed across the Stygian river."
The gods agreed, and even royal Juno
Was moved and gave assent. Jove spoke in answer:
"You are worthy of Heaven's gift, you both are worthy,
You and your son. Receive what you have asked for."
Venus rejoiced, gave thanks to Jove, soared high
Through the light air, borne by her doves, and came
To the Laurentian coast, where, through the beds
Of sheltering reeds, Numicius winds his river
To the salt sea. She bade him purge Aeneas
Of all his mortal body, bear it down
In silence to the ocean; he obeyed
And with his waters purified Aeneas
Of all his human dross, but what was best
Remained forever with him, and his mother
Sprinkled his body with a fragrant ointment,
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And touched his lips with nectar and ambrosia,
Made him a god, one whom the Roman people
Call Indiges, The Native-Born, and honor
Is paid his temple now, and sacrifice.
Next Alba and the Latin state came under
Iulus, or Ascanius; we call him
By either name. Then Silvius succeeded,
Whose son, Latinus, bears his name as heirloom
Of the old power; then came famous Alba,
Epytus next, then Capys and Capetus,
Then Tiberinus, who in drowning gave
A river its name; his sons were Remulus
And Acrota the warlike. Remulus
Was older, and the lightning killed him, trying
To imitate the lightning. Less audacious,
Acrota turned the power and sceptre over
To Aventinus, who lies buried now
On the hill where once he ruled, leaving his name
As his memorial there. And the next monarch
Was Procas, in whose reign the nymph Pomona
Tended her gardens and her lovely orchards.
Gardens and fruit were all her care; no other
Was ever more skilled or diligent. Woods and rivers
Were nothing to her, only the fields, the branches
Bearing the prosperous fruits. She bore no javelin,
But the curved pruning-hook, to trim the branches,
Check too luxuriant growth, or make incision
For the engrafted twig to thrive and grow in.
She would not let them thirst: the flowing waters
Poured down to the roots. This was her love, her passion.
Venus was nothing to her, but she feared
The violence of the rustics, kept men off
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>From her closed orchard. Many tried to win her,
Thinking of every way, young dancing Satyrs,
Pans with their horns disguised with pine, Silenus,
Who was always younger than his years, Priapus,
The god who scares off thieves, either with sickle
Or something else he carries. And Vertumnus
Surpassed them all in love, and fared no better.
How often he used to come, dressed as a reaper,
Bringing her grain in baskets, and he looked
The very image of a reaper. Often
He would come with hay around his ears and temples,
Fresh come, or so it seemed, from swathe and windrow,
Or he would have an ox-goad in his hand,
And you would swear he had just unyoked his cattle.
Leaf-gatherer, vine-pruner, hook in hand,
Or ladder on shoulder, like an apple picker,
He could be any of these, or a fisherman
With rod, or a soldier with a sword. So, often,
In one guise or another, he would find
His way to her, happy to watch her beauty.
He wound some long gray hair around his temples,
Tied a bright scarf around his head, came hobbling,
A bent old woman with a cane, to enter
The garden, to admire the fruit, to tell her
But you are better! And after the praise he kissed her,
Not once, but over and over: no real old woman
Kissed that way, ever. Then the poor old creature,
Bent almost double, squatted on the ground,
Squinting up at the branches bending under
The weight of autumn. There was an elm-tree there,
Showy with shining clusters of the grape.
This drew approving nods, the trunk, the vine
Engrafted to it, and presently the comment:
"Ah, if that tree stood there alone, unmated,
Without its vine, its leaves would be the only
Reason for looking at it, and the vine,
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Unwedded to the elm to which it clings,
Would lie on the dusty ground, and all for nothing!
You do not imitate the vine's example,
You do not want to marry, to join another.
I wish you did: for you would have more suitors
Than Helen or Hippodamia, over whom
Lapiths and Centaurs went to war, more suitors
Even than Penelope. A thousand men,
Although you shun and scorn them, still desire you,
Half-gods and gods and all the powers that cherish
These Alban hills. But if you will be wise,
Make a good match, pay heed to an old woman
Like me, who love you more than all the others,
More than you would believe: listen to me!
Reject these nobodies, and choose Vertumnus
To go to bed with. I stand sponsor for him;
I know him, if not better than he knows
Himself, at least as well. No vagabond
Roaming the world, he dwells in these great places
Close by us here; and another thing about him,
He is different from the rest, he does not love
The latest girl he sees. He is not fickle,
You will be his first and last and only love
All through his life, and he is young, and charming,
Can change himself to any shape, will always
Be what you want him to, no matter what orders
You choose to give him. And he loves the things
That you do: he is always first to cherish
The apples you love, and he lays joyful hands
Upon your gifts, but what he really covets
Is not the fruit of your trees, nor the sweet herbs
Your garden bears, but you alone. Have pity!
He loves you so. Can you not hear him pleading
Through me? Imagine him here, and that my lips
Are asking what he longs for. And beware
The avenging gods and that Idalian goddess
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Who hates the hard of heart, and do not anger
Rhamnusian Nemesis, either. I have lived
A long long time, and the years have brought me knowledge
Of many things: you must fear these powers, I tell you.
Consent, be kindly: I have a story to tell you,
One that may help you.
There was a youth named Iphis,
Of common birth, but he had seen a princess
Of ancient Teucer's line, Anaxarete,
And fell in love with her, and felt the flame
And fought against it, and when he found that reason
Could not subdue his passion, he came to her,
A suppliant to her door; he told her nurse
His wretched love, and begged her by her hopes
For her dear foster child to treat him kindly;
He tried to coax the servants to do him favors;
Often he gave them messages on tablets
With honeyed words to take to her, and often
Hung garlands at her door: that was not dew
Upon them, but his tears; and he would lie
At her stone threshold, sighing his reproaches
Against the cruel bars. But she was heedless
As waves that rise in winter; she was harder
Than steel or living rock, and spumed and mocked him
With proud and arrogant words, cheating the lover
Of any hope at all. He could not bear it,
The torment, the long pain, and at her door
Cried these last words: 'You win, Anaxarete!
I bother you no more: rejoice, and triumph,
Sing your Hosannas, crown your head with laurel.
You win, and I am glad to die. Be happy,
You of the iron heart! And still you must
Find something in my love to praise, some feature
By which I please you, some acknowledged merit.
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Remember that I loved you, and my love
Endured as long as I lived, and that I suffered
A double blindness. It will be no rumor
That comes to tell you of my death: I, Iphis,
Shall be there, you will see me; feast your eyes
Upon my lifeless body. And if, O gods,
You see the deeds of mortals, remember me!
My tongue can pray no more. But tell my story
In far-off times, and what my life is losing
Add to my fame!'' He raised his weeping eyes,
His waxen arms, to the doorway he had often
Hung with his garlands, and he flung a halter
Over the topmost beam. 'Here's a wreath for you,
The kind you really like, cruel and wicked!'
He thrust his head into the noose and turned
To face the door, and hung there, a lifeless burden
With broken neck, and with convulsive kicking
Beat on the door, which shuddered, groaned, flew open,
Revealed the horror, and the servants cried
And took him down, too late, and bore him home
To his widowed mother's house. She took him in her arms,
Embraced her son's cold limbs, and said whatever
Poor mothers can, and did the things poor mothers
Must do, and led the funeral through the city,
The body toward the pyre. And it so happened
Anaxarete's house was near the street
Along which passed that sorrowful procession
Whose mournful sound came to her ears. Some god
Was driving her toward vengeance, for she said
'We had better see this sorrowful procession!'
And from the open windows she looked on Iphis
Lying there on the bier, and her eyes stiffened,
And blood grew cold in her body: she tried, in vain,
To step back from the window, but she could not.
She tried to turn her face away, but could not.
Little by little the hard-hearted stone
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Seized all her limbs. You would believe the story
If ever you saw her image, a marble statue
In Salamis, and the temple in her honor,
Inscribed For the Venus who looks out the window.
Remember things like this, dear nymph; put off
All this relentless pride: yield to your lover.
Then frost in the spring will never come to nip
The fruit in the bud, nor wild winds break the flower."
All this Vertumnus told in vain: the story
Had no effect, and his disguise was worthless.
He put off woman's garb, and stood before her
In the light of his own radiance, as the sun
Breaks through the clouds against all opposition.
Ready for force, he found no need; Pomona
Was taken by his beauty, and her passion
Answered his own.
Next false Amulius ruled
The Ausonian state, but ancient Numitor,
His grandson helping, captured back the kingdom
He once had lost, and the City walls were founded
On Pales' festival. The Sabine fathers
Waged war with Tatius, and a girl, Tarpeia,
Betrayed the way to the Citadel, and paid
The price of treason, under the arms heaped on her.
Then Cures' men, quiet as wolves, came stealing
On Romans sunk in slumber, toward the gates
Which Ilia's son had barred, and one of these
Juno herself swung open. Venus saw it
And would have closed it, but one god can never
Undo another's work. Near Janus' temple
Where a cold spring ran cool, Ausonian naiads
Had made their place, and Venus went to them
For help, and it was given. To that temple
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The path was always open; water never
Had blocked the way before, but now the naiads
Placed yellow sulphur under the spring, and heated
The hollow veins with burning pitch, and steam
Boiled in the fountain till the Alpine cold
Was hotter even than fire. The gate-posts smoldered,
The gate, swung open in vain, became a torrent
No warrior could pass through, till the Romans
Had time for arms, and Romulus struck back,
And soon the Roman plain was strewn with carnage,
Fathers and sons mingling their blood together.
There was peace at last, and none too soon, and Tatius
Shared in the kingdom.
And the laws were equal
After his death, with Romulus as monarch,
And Mars put off his gleaming helmet, pleading
Before the throne of Jove: "The time has come,
O father, since the Roman state stands firm
On strong foundations, not on one man's power,
To keep the promise made me and to bear him,
Your grandson Romulus, aloft to Heaven.
There was a council once, and all the gods were there,
And I was there, and treasured in my heart
Your gracious words: There will be one whom Mars
Shall bear to the blue Heaven. Let the promise
Now be redeemed in full." And Jove assented,
Hid all the sky in cloud, and filled the earth
With thunder and with lightning, and Mars knew it,
The sign-to-be of that transfiguration,
Vaulted from spear to car, the black steeds straining
Under the bloody yoke, and the lash sounding,
As down the air he came to Palatine
And there, as Ilia's son was giving judgment
With no tyrannical ordinance to his people,
He caught him up from earth, his mortal body
Dissolved into thin air, as a leaden bullet
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>From the broad sling melts out of sight in its flying.
And now a new and fairer form is given him,
Worthy the high gods' couches, and the robes
For his new station, and he is called Quirinus.
His wife, Hersilia, mourned for him, when Juno
Sent Iris down the archway of her rainbow
With words of consolation: "Queen and glory
Of Sabines and of Latins, O most worthy
Consort of hero, now the god Quirinus,
Control your sorrow, and if you would see him
Come with me to the dark-green grove, whose shadow
Falls on the temple of the king of Rome."
And Iris brought the message, and Hersilia
Heard, and could hardly lift her eyes, and answered:
"Goddess, most surely goddess, though I have not
The power to tell, lead, lead me on, and show me
My husband's face. If only Fate will grant me
The sight of him once more, then shall I truly
Say I have reached my Heaven." She went on
With Iris guiding, and a star from Heaven
Came gliding earthward over Romulus' hill,
And Queen Hersilia, her own tresses burning
Under its light, soared with the star, aloft
Through the thin air, and Romulus received her
With hands that knew her well, and changed her body,
Her former name, and called her Hora, goddess
Joined once more with Quirinus.