Then thus the gracious goddess, nodding, said:
'Depart, and with your vestments veil your head;
And stooping lowly down, with loosen'd zones,
Throw each behind your backs your mighty me-
ther's bones.'
Amaz'd the pair and mute with wonder stand,
Till Pyrrha first refus'd the dire command.
Forbid it heaven!' said she, that I should tear Those holy relics from the sepulchre.'
They ponder'd the mysterious words again,
For some new sense; and long they sought in vain:
At length Deucalion clear'd his cloudy brow,
And said: The dark enigma will allow
A meaning, which if well I understand,
From sacrilege will free the god's command.
This earth our mighty mother is, the stones
In her capacious body are her bones;
These we must cast behind.' With hope and fear,
The woman did the new solution hear:
The man diffides in his own augury,
And doubts the gods; yet both resolve to try.
Descending from the mount, they first unbind
Their vests; and, veil'd, they cast the stones behind;
The stones (a miracle to mortal view,
But long tradition makes it pass for true)
Did first the rigour of their kind expel,
And suppled into softness as they fell;
Then swell'd; and, swelling, by degrees grew warm,
And took the rudiments of human form.
Imperfect shapes: in marble such are seen,
When the rude chisel does the man begin;
While yet the roughness of the stone remains,
Without the rising muscles and the veins.
The sappy parts, and next resembling juice,
Were turn'd to moisture, for the body's use,
Supplying humours, blood, and nourishment;
The rest, too solid to receive a bent,
Converts to bones; and what was once a vein,
Its former name and nature did retain.
By help of power divine, in little space
What the man threw assum'd a manly face;
And what the wife, renew'd the female race.
Hence we derive our nature, born to bear
Laborious life, and harden'd into care.
The rest of animals, from teeming earth
Produc'd, in various forms receiv'd their birth.
The native moisture, in its close retreat,
Digested by the sun's ethereal heat,
As in a kindly womb, began to breed,
Then swell'd, and quicken'd by the vital seed:
And some in less, and some in longer space,
Were ripen'd into form, and took a several face.
Thus when the Nile from Pharian fields is fled,
And seeks, with ebbing tides, his ancient bed,
The fat manure with heavenly fire is warm'd,
And crusted creatures, as in wombs, are form'd;
These, when they turn the glebe, the peasants find;
Some rude, and yet unfinish'd in their kind:
Short of their limbs, a lame imperfect birth;
One half alive, and one of lifeless earth.
For heat and moisture, when in bodies join'd,
The temper that results from either kind
Conception makes; and fighting till they mix,
Their mingled atoms in each other fix.
Thus nature's hand the genial bed prepares
With friendly discord, and with fruitful wars.
From hence the surface of the ground with muð And slime besmear'd, (the fæces of the flood) Receiv'd the rays of heaven, and, sucking in The seeds of heat, new creatures did begin: Some were of several sorts produc'd before, But of new monsters, earth created more. Unwillingly, but yet she brought to light Thee, Python, too, the wondering world to fright, And the new nations, with so dire a sight : So monstrous was his bulk, so large a space Did his vast body and long train embrace. Whom Phoebus basking on a bank espy'd; Ere now the god his arrows had not try'd, But on the trembling deer, or mountain goat; At this new quarry he prepares to shoot. Though every shaft took place, he spent the store Of his full quiver; and 'twas long before The' expiring serpent wallow'd in his gore. Then, to preserve the fame of such a deed, For Python slain, he Pythian games decreed; Where noble youths for mastership should strive, To quoit, to run, and steeds and chariots drive. The prize was fame: in witness of renown An oaken garland did the victor crown. The laurel was not yet for triumphs born; But every green alike by Phœbus worn, [adorn. Did, with promiscuous grace, his flowing locks
THE TRANSFORMATION OF DAPHNE INTO A
The first and fairest of his loves was she Whom not blind fortune, but the dire decree Of angry Cupid, forc'd him to desire: Daphne her name, and Peneus was her sire.
Swell'd with the pride that new success attends,
He sees the stripling while his bow he bends,
And thus insults him: Thou lascivious boy,
Are arms like these for children to employ?
Know, such achievements are my proper claim,
Due to my vigour, and unerring aim:
Resistless are my shafts, and Python late
In such a feather'd death has found his fate.
Take up thy torch, (and lay my weapons by)
With that the feeble souls of lovers fry.'
To whom the son of Venus thus reply'd:
'Phœbus, thy shafts are sure on all beside,
But mine on Phoebus; mine the fame shall be
Of all thy conquests, when I conquer thee.'
He said; and, soaring, swiftly wing'd his flight,
Nor stop'd but on Parnassus' airy height.
Two different shafts he from his quiver draws;
One to repel desire, and one to cause.
One shaft is pointed with refulgent gold;
To bribe the love, and make the lover bold:
One blunt, and tip'd with lead, whose base allay
Provokes disdain, and drives desire away.
The blunted bolt against the nymph he dress'd;
But with the sharp transfix'd Apollo's breast.
The' enamour'd deity pursues the chase;
The scornful damsel shuns his loath'd embrace: In hunting beasts of prey her youth employs, And Phoebe rivals in her rural joys.
With naked neck she goes, and shoulders bare ; And with a fillet binds her flowing hair.
By many suitors sought, she mocks their pains, And still her vow'd virginity maintains. Impatient of a yoke, the name of bride
She shuns, and hates the joys she never try'd.
On wilds and woods she fixes her desire,
Nor knows what youth and kindly love inspire. Her father chides her oft: 'Thou ow'st,' says he, A husband to thyself, a son to me.'
She like a crime abhors the nuptial bed;
She glows with blushes, and she hangs her head;
Then casting round his neck her tender arms,
Soothes him with blandishments, and filial charms:
'Give me, my lord,' said she, to live and die
A spotless maid, without the marriage-tie.
"Tis but a small request; I beg no more
Than what Diana's father gave before.'
The good old sire was soften'd to consent;
But said her wish would prove her punishment:
For so much youth and so much beauty join'd,
Oppos'd the state which her desires design'd.
The god of light, aspiring to her bed,
Hopes what he seeks, with flattering fancies fed,
And is by his own oracles misled.
And as in empty fields the stubble burns,
Or nightly travellers, when day returns,
Their useless torches on dry hedges throw,
That catch the flames, and kindle all the row,
So burns the god, consuming in desire,
And feeding in his breast a fruitless fire.
Her well-turn'd neck he view'd, (her neck was bare)
And on her shoulders her dishevell'd hair:
Oh, were it comb'd,' said he, 'with what a grace
Would every waving curl become her face!'
He view'd her eyes, like heavenly lamps that shone;
He view'd her lips, too sweet to view alone;
Her taper fingers, and her panting breast;
He praises all he sees, and for the rest
Believes the beauties yet unseen are best:
|