Veiled in a saffron mantle, through the airunmeasured, after the strange wedding, Hymendeparted swiftly for Ciconian land;regardless and not listening to the voiceof tuneful Orpheus. Truly Hymen therewas present during the festivitiesof Orpheus and Eurydice, but gaveno happy omen, neither hallowed wordsnor joyful glances; and the torch he heldwould only sputter, fill the eyes with smoke,and cause no blaze while waving. The resultof that sad wedding, proved more terriblethan such foreboding fates.While through the grassdelighted Naiads wandered with the bride,a serpent struck its venomed tooth in hersoft ankle— and she died.—After the bardof Rhodope had mourned, and filled the highsof heaven with the moans of his lament,determined also the dark underworldshould recognize the misery of death,he dared descend by the Taenarian gatedown to the gloomy Styx. And there passed throughpale-glimmering phantoms, and the ghostsescaped from sepulchres, until he foundPersephone and Pluto, master-kingof shadow realms below: and then beganto strike his tuneful lyre, to which he sang:—“O deities of this dark world beneaththe earth! this shadowy underworld, to whichall mortals must descend! If it can becalled lawful, and if you will suffer speechof strict truth (all the winding waysof Falsity forbidden) I come notdown here because of curiosityto see the glooms of Tartarus and haveno thought to bind or strangle the three necksof the Medusan Monster, vile with snakes.But I have come, because my darling wifestepped on a viper that sent through her veinsdeath-poison, cutting off her coming years.“If able, I would bear it, I do notdeny my effort—but the god of Lovehas conquered me—a god so kindly knownin all the upper world. We are not surehe can be known so well in this deep world,but have good reason to conjecture heis not unknown here, and if old reportalmost forgotten, that you stole your wifeis not a fiction, Love united youthe same as others. By this Place of Fearthis huge void and these vast and silent realms,renew the life-thread of Eurydice.“All things are due to you, and though on earthit happens we may tarry a short while,slowly or swiftly we must go to oneabode; and it will be our final home.Long and tenaciously you will possessunquestioned mastery of the human race.She also shall be yours to rule, when fullof age she shall have lived the days of herallotted years. So I ask of youpossession of her few days as a boon.But if the fates deny to me this prayerfor my true wife, my constant mind must holdme always so that I can not return—and you may triumph in the death of two!”While he sang all his heart said to the soundof his sweet lyre, the bloodless ghosts themselveswere weeping, and the anxious Tantalusstopped clutching at return-flow of the wave,Ixion's twisting wheel stood wonder-bound;and Tityus' liver for a while escapedthe vultures, and the listening Belidesforgot their sieve-like bowls and even you,O Sisyphus! sat idly on your rock!Then Fame declared that conquered by the songof Orpheus, for the first and only timethe hard cheeks of the fierce Eumenideswere wet with tears: nor could the royal queen,nor he who rules the lower world denythe prayer of Orpheus; so they called to themEurydice, who still was held amongthe new-arriving shades, and she obeyedthe call by walking to them with slow steps,yet halting from her wound. So Orpheus thenreceived his wife; and Pluto told him hemight now ascend from these Avernian valesup to the light, with his Eurydice;but, if he turned his eyes to look at her,the gift of her delivery would be lost.They picked their way in silence up a steepand gloomy path of darkness. There remainedbut little more to climb till they would touchearth's surface, when in fear he might againlose her, and anxious for another lookat her, he turned his eyes so he could gazeupon her. Instantly she slipped away.He stretched out to her his despairing arms,eager to rescue her, or feel her form,but could hold nothing save the yielding air.Dying the second time, she could not saya word of censure of her husband's fault;what had she to complain of — his great love?Her last word spoken was, “Farewell!” which hecould barely hear, and with no further soundshe fell from him again to Hades.—Struckquite senseless by this double death of hisdear wife, he was as fixed from motion asthe frightened one who saw the triple necksof Cerberus, that dog whose middle neckwas chained. The sight filled him with terror hehad no escape from, until petrifiedto stone; or like Olenos, changed to stone,because he fastened on himself the guiltof his wife. O unfortunate Lethaea!Too boastful of your beauty, you and he,united once in love, are now two stonesupon the mountain Ida, moist with springs.Orpheus implored in vain the ferrymanto help him cross the River Styx again,but was denied the very hope of death.Seven days he sat upon Death's river bank,in squalid misery and without all food—nourished by grief, anxiety, and tears—complaining that the Gods of Erebuswere pitiless, at last he wandered back,until he came to lofty Rhodopeand Haemus, beaten by the strong north wind.Three times the Sun completed his full courseto watery Pisces, and in all that time,shunning all women, Orpheus still believedhis love-pledge was forever. So he keptaway from women, though so many grieved,because he took no notice of their love.The only friendship he enjoyed was givento the young men of Thrace.
Inde per inmensum croceo velatus amictuaethera digreditur Ciconumque Hymenaeus ad orastendit et Orphea nequiquam voce vocatur.Adfuit ille quidem, sed nec sollemnia verbanec laetos vultus nec felix attulit omen.Fax quoque, quam tenuit, lacrimoso stridula fumousque fuit nullosque invenit motibus ignes.Exitus auspicio gravior: nam nupta per herbasdum nova naiadum turba comitata vagatur,occidit in talum serpentis dente recepto.Quam satis ad superas postquam Rhodopeius aurasdeflevit vates, ne non temptaret et umbras,ad Styga Taenaria est ausus descendere porta;perque leves populos simulacraque functa sepulcroPersephonen adiit inamoenaque regna tenentemumbrarum dominum. Pulsisque ad carmina nervissic ait: “O positi sub terra numina mundi,in quem reccidimus, quidquid mortale creamur,si licet et falsi positis ambagibus orisvera loqui sinitis, non huc, ut opaca videremTartara, descendi, nec uti villosa colubristerna Medusaei vincirem guttura monstri:causa viae est coniunx, in quam calcata venenumvipera diffudit crescentesque abstulit annos.Posse pati volui nec me temptasse negabo:vicit Amor. Supera deus hic bene notus in ora est,an sit et hic, dubito. Sed et hic tamen auguror esse;famaque si veteris non est mentita rapinae,vos quoque iunxit Amor. Per ego haec loca plena timoris,per chaos hoc ingens vastique silentia regni,Eurydices, oro, properata retexite fata.Omnia debemur vobis, paulumque moratiserius aut citius sedem properamus ad unam.Tendimus huc omnes, haec est domus ultima, vosquehumani generis longissima regna tenetis.Haec quoque, cum iustos matura peregerit annos,iuris erit vestri: pro munere poscimus usum.Quod si fata negant veniam pro coniuge, certum estnolle redire mihi: leto gaudete duorum.”Talia dicentem nervosque ad verba moventemexsangues flebant animae: nec Tantalus undamcaptavit refugam, stupuitque Ixionis orbis,nec carpsere iecur volucres, urnisque vacaruntBelides, inque tuo sedisti, Sisyphe, saxo.Tunc primum lacrimis victarum carmine fama estEumenidum maduisse genas. Nec regia coniunxsustinet oranti nec qui regit ima negare,Eurydicenque vocant. Umbras erat illa recentesinter et incessit passu de vulnere tardo.Hanc simul et legem Rhodopeius accipit Orpheus,ne flectat retro sua lumina, donec Avernasexierit valles: aut inrita dona futura.Carpitur acclivis per muta silentia trames,arduus, obscurus, caligine densus opaca.Nec procul afuerunt telluris margine summae:hic, ne deficeret, metuens avidusque videndiflexit amans oculos; et protinus illa relapsa est,bracchiaque intendens prendique et prendere certansnil nisi cedentes infelix arripit auras.Iamque iterum moriens non est de coniuge quicquamquesta suo: quid enim nisi se quereretur amatam?Supremumque “vale,” quod iam vix auribus illeacciperet, dixit revolutaque rursus eodem est.Non aliter stupuit gemina nece coniugis Orpheus,quam tria qui timidus, medio portante catenas,colla canis vidit, quem non pavor ante reliquit,quam natura prior, saxo per corpus oborto;quique in se crimen traxit voluitque videriOlenos esse nocens, tuque, o confisa figurae,infelix Lethaea, tuae, iunctissima quondampectora, nunc lapides, quos umida sustinet Ide.Orantem frustraque iterum transire volentemportitor arcuerat. Septem tamen ille diebussqualidus in ripa Cereris sine munere sedit:cura dolorque animi lacrimaeque alimenta fuere.Esse deos Erebi crudeles questus, in altamse recipit Rhodopen pulsumque aquilonibus Haemum.Tertius aequoreis inclusum piscibus annumfinierat Titan, omnemque refugerat Orpheusfemineam venerem, seu quod male cesserat illi,sive fidem dederat. Multas tamen ardor habebatiungere se vati, multae doluere repulsae.Ille etiam Thracum populis fuit auctor amoremin teneros transferre mares citraque iuventamaetatis breve ver et primos carpere flores.
There was a hillwhich rose up to a level plateau, highand beautiful with green grass; and there wasnot any shade for comfort on the topand there on that luxuriant grass the bard,while heaven-inspired reclined, and strucksuch harmonies on his sweet lyre that shademost grateful to the hill was spread around.Strong trees came up there—the Chaonian oakthe Heliads' poplar, and the lofty-brancheddeep mast-tree, the soft linden and the beech,the brittle hazel, and the virgin laurel-tree,the ash for strong spears, the smooth silver-fir,the flex bent with acorns and the plane,the various tinted maple and with those,the lotus and green willows from their streams,evergreen box and slender tamarisks,rich myrtles of two colors and the tine,bending with green-blue berries: and you, too,the pliant-footed ivy, came alongwith tendril-branching grape-vines, and the elmall covered with twist-vines, the mountain-ash,pitch-trees and arbute-trees of blushing fruit,the bending-palm prized after victories,the bare-trunk pine of tufted foliage,bristled upon the top, a pleasant sightdelightful to the Mother of the Gods;since Attis dear to Cybele, exchangedhis human form which hardened in that tree.In all the throng the cone-shaped cypress came;a tree now, it was changed from a dear youthloved by the god who strings the lyre and bow.For there was at one time, a mighty stagheld sacred by those nymphs who haunt the fieldsCarthaean. His great antlers spread so wide,they gave an ample shade to his own head.Those antlers shone with gold: from his smooth throata necklace, studded with a wealth of gems,hung down to his strong shoulders—beautiful.A silver boss, fastened with little thongs,played on his forehead, worn there from his birth;and pendants from both ears, of gleaming pearls,adorned his hollow temples. Free of fear,and now no longer shy, frequenting homesof men he knew, he offered his soft neckeven to strangers for their petting hands.But more than by all others, he was lovedby you, O Cyparissus, fairest youthof all the lads of Cea. It was youwho led the pet stag to fresh pasturage,and to the waters of the clearest spring.Sometimes you wove bright garlands for his horns,and sometimes, like a horseman on his back,now here now there, you guided his soft mouthwith purple reins. It was upon a summer day,at high noon when the Crab, of spreading claws,loving the sea-shore, almost burnt beneaththe sun's hot burning rays; and the pet stagwas then reclining on the grassy earthand, wearied of all action, found reliefunder the cool shade of the forest trees;that as he lay there Cyparissus piercedhim with a javelin: and although it wasquite accidental, when the shocked youth sawhis loved stag dying from the cruel woundhe could not bear it, and resolved on death.What did not Phoebus say to comfort him?He cautioned him to hold his grief in check,consistent with the cause. But still the ladlamented, and with groans implored the Godsthat he might mourn forever. His life forceexhausted by long weeping, now his limbsbegan to take a green tint, and his hair,which overhung his snow-white brow, turned upinto a bristling crest; and he becamea stiff tree with a slender top and pointedup to the starry heavens. And the God,groaning with sorrow, said; “You shall be mournedsincerely by me, surely as you mournfor others, and forever you shall standin grief, where others grieve.”
Collis erat collemque super planissima campiarea, quam viridem faciebant graminis herbae.Umbra loco deerat: qua postquam parte reseditdis genitus vates et fila sonantia movit,umbra loco venit. Non Chaonis afuit arbor.non nemus Heliadum, non frondibus aesculus altis,nec tiliae molles, nec fagus et innuba laurus,et coryli fragiles et fraxinus utilis hastisenodisque abies curvataque glandibus ilexet platanus genialis acerque coloribus imparamnicolaeque simul salices et aquatica lotosperpetuoque virens buxum tenuesque myricaeet bicolor myrtus et bacis caerula tinus.Vos quoque, flexipedes hederae, venistis et unapampineae vites et amictae vitibus ulmi,ornique et piceae pomoque onerata rubentiarbutus et lentae, victoris praemia, palmaeet succincta comas hirsutaque vertice pinus,grata deum matri; siquidem Cybeleius Attisexuit hac hominem truncoque induruit illo.Adfuit huic turbae metas imitata cupressus,nunc arbor, puer ante deo dilectus ab illo,qui citharam nervis et nervis temperat arcum.Namque sacer nymphis Carthaea tenentibus arvaingens cervus erat, lateque patentibus altasipse suo capiti praebebat cornibus umbras.Cornua fulgebant auro, demissaque in armospendebant tereti gemmata monilia collo.Bulla super frontem parvis argentea lorisvincta movebatur parilique aetate: nitebantauribus e geminis circum cava tempora bacae.Isque metu vacuus naturalique pavoredeposito celebrare domos mulcendaque collaquamlibet ignotis manibus praebere solebat.Sed tamen ante alios, Ceae pulcherrime gentis,gratus erat, Cyparisse, tibi. Tu pabula cervumad nova, tu liquidi ducebas fontis ad undam,tu modo nectebas varios per cornua flores,nunc eques in tergo residens huc laetus et illucmollia purpureis frenabas ora capistris.Aestus erat mediusque dies, solisque vaporeconcava litorei fervebant bracchia cancri:fessus in herbosa posuit sua corpora terracervus et arborea frigus ducebat ab umbra.Hunc puer imprudens iaculo Cyparissus acutofixit; et ut saevo morientem vulnere vidit,velle mori statuit. Quae non solacia Phoebusdixit et ut leviter pro materiaque doleret,admonuit! Gemit ille tamen munusque supremumhoc petit a superis, ut tempore lugeat omni.Iamque per inmensos egesto sanguine fletusin viridem verti coeperunt membra colorem,et modo qui nivea pendebant fronte capilli,horrida caesaries fieri sumptoque rigoresidereum gracili spectare cacumine caelum.Ingemuit tristisque deus “lugebere nobislugebisque alios aderisque dolentibus” inquit.
Such was the groveby Orpheus drawn together; and he satsurrounded by assembled animals,and many strange Birds. When he tried the chordsby touching with his thumb, and was convincedthe notes were all in harmony, althoughattuned to various melody, he raisedhis voice and sang:“Oh my loved mother, Muse,from Jove inspire my song—for all things yield,to the unequalled sway of Jove—oh, Ihave sung so often Jupiter's great powerbefore this day, and in a wilder strain,I've sung the giants and victorious boltshurled on Phlegraean plains. But now I needthe gentler touch; for I would sing of boys,the favorites of Gods, and even of maidswho had to pay the penalty of wrong.”The king of all the Gods once burned with lovefor Ganymede of Phrygia. He founda shape more pleasing even than his own.Jove would not take the form of any bird,except the eagle's, able to sustainthe weight of his own thunderbolts. Withoutdelay, Jove on fictitious eagle wings,stole and flew off with that loved Trojan boy:who even to this day, against the willof Juno, mingles nectar in the cupsof his protector, mighty Jupiter.You also, Hyacinthus, would have beenset in the sky! if Phoebus had been giventime which the cruel fates denied for you.But in a way you are immortal too.Though you have died. Always when warm springdrives winter out, and Aries (the Ram)succeeds to Pisces (watery Fish), you riseand blossom on the green turf. And the lovemy father had for you was deeper than he feltfor others. Delphi center of the world,had no presiding guardian, while the Godfrequented the Eurotas and the landof Sparta, never fortified with walls.His zither and his bow no longer fillhis eager mind and now without a thoughtof dignity, he carried nets and heldthe dogs in leash, and did not hesitateto go with Hyacinthus on the rough,steep mountain ridges; and by all of suchassociations, his love was increased.Now Titan was about midway, betwixtthe coming and the banished night, and stoodat equal distance from those two extremes.Then, when the youth and Phoebus were well stripped,and gleaming with rich olive oil, they trieda friendly contest with the discus. FirstPhoebus, well-poised, sent it awhirl through air,and cleft the clouds beyond with its broad weight;from which at length it fell down to the earth,a certain evidence of strength and skill.Heedless of danger Hyacinthus rushedfor eager glory of the game, resolvedto get the discus. But it bounded backfrom off the hard earth, and struck full againstyour face, O Hyacinthus! Deadly palethe God's face went — as pallid as the boy's.With care he lifted the sad huddled form.The kind god tries to warm you back to life,and next endeavors to attend your wound,and stay your parting soul with healing herbs.His skill is no advantage, for the woundis past all art of cure. As if someone,when in a garden, breaks off violets,poppies, or lilies hung from golden stems,then drooping they must hang their withered heads,and gaze down towards the earth beneath them; so,the dying boy's face droops, and his bent neck,a burden to itself, falls back uponhis shoulder: “You are fallen in your primedefrauded of your youth, O Hyacinthus!”Moaned Apollo. “I can see in your sad woundmy own guilt, and you are my cause of griefand self-reproach. My own hand gave you deathunmerited — I only can be chargedwith your destruction.—What have I done wrong?Can it be called a fault to play with you?Should loving you be called a fault? And oh,that I might now give up my life for you!Or die with you! But since our destiniesprevent us you shall always be with me,and you shall dwell upon my care-filled lips.The lyre struck by my hand, and my true songswill always celebrate you. A new floweryou shall arise, with markings on your petals,close imitation of my constant moans:and there shall come another to be linkedwith this new flower, a valiant hero shallbe known by the same marks upon its petals.”And while Phoebus, Apollo, sang these wordswith his truth-telling lips, behold the bloodof Hyacinthus, which had poured out onthe ground beside him and there stained the grass,was changed from blood; and in its place a flower,more beautiful than Tyrian dye, sprang up.It almost seemed a lily, were it notthat one was purple and the other white.But Phoebus was not satisfied with this.For it was he who worked the miracleof his sad words inscribed on flower leaves.These letters AI, AI, are inscribedon them. And Sparta certainly is proudto honor Hyacinthus as her son;and his loved fame endures; and every yearthey celebrate his solemn festival.
Tale nemus vates attraxerat inque ferarumconcilio medius turba volucrumque sedebat.Ut satis impulsas temptavit pollice chordaset sensit varios, quamvis diversa sonarent,concordare modos, hoc vocem carmine movit:“Ab Iove, Musa parens, (cedunt Iovis omnia regno!)carmina nostra move! Iovis est mihi saepe potestasdicta prius: cecini plectro graviore Gigantassparsaque Phlegraeis victricia fulmina campis:nunc opus est leviore lyra, puerosque canamusdilectos superis, inconcessisque puellasignibus attonitas meruisse libidine poenam.Rex superum Phrygii quondam Ganymedis amorearsit, et inventum est aliquid, quod Iuppiter esse,quam quod erat, mallet. Nulla tamen alite vertidignatur, nisi quae posset sua fulmina ferre.Nec mora, percusso mendacibus aere pennisabripit Iliaden; qui nunc quoque pocula miscetinvitaque Iovi nectar Iunone ministrat.Te quoque, Amyclide, posuisset in aethere Phoebus,tristia si spatium ponendi fata dedissent.Qua licet, aeternus tamen es: quotiensque repellitver hiemem piscique aries succedit aquoso,tu totiens oreris viridique in caespite flores.Te meus ante omnes genitor dilexit, et orbein medio positi caruerunt praeside Delphi,dum deus Eurotan inmunitamque frequentatSparten. Nec citharae nec sunt in honore sagittae:inmemor ipse sui non retia ferre recusat,non tenuisse canes, non per iuga montis iniquiire comes, longaque alit adsuetudine flammas.Iamque fere medius Titan venientis et actaenoctis erat spatioque pari distabat utrimque:corpora veste levant et suco pinguis olivisplendescunt latique ineunt certamina disci.Quem prius aerias libratum Phoebus in aurasmisit et oppositas disiecit pondere nubes.Reccidit in solidam longo post tempore terrampondus et exhibuit iunctam cum viribus artem.Protinus imprudens actusque cupidine lusustollere Taenarides orbem properabat. At illumdura repercusso subiecit verbere tellusin vultus, Hyacinthe, tuos. Expalluit aequequam puer ipse deus conlapsosque excipit artus,et modo te refovet, modo tristia vulnera siccat,nunc animam admotis fugientem sustinet herbis.Nil prosunt artes: erat inmedicabile vulnus.Ut siquis violas rigidumve papaver in hortoliliaque infringat fulvis horrentia linguis,marcida demittant subito caput illa vietumnec se sustineant spectentque cacumine terram:sic vultus moriens iacet, et defecta vigoreipsa sibi est oneri cervix umeroque recumbit.“Laberis, Oebalide, prima fraudate iuventa,”Phoebus ait “videoque tuum, mea crimina, vulnus.Tu dolor es facinusque meum: mea dextera letoinscribenda tuo est! Ego sum tibi funeris auctor.Quae mea culpa tamen? Nisi si lusisse vocariculpa potest, nisi culpa potest et amasse vocari.Atque utinam merito vitam tecumque liceretreddere! Quod quoniam fatali lege tenemur,semper eris mecum memorique haerebis in ore.Te lyra pulsa manu, te carmina nostra sonabunt,flosque novus scripto gemitus imitabere nostros.Tempus et illud erit, quo se fortissimus herosaddat in hunc florem folioque legatur eodem.”Talia dum vero memorantur Apollinis ore,ecce cruor, qui fusus humo signaverat herbas,desinit esse cruor, Tyrioque nitentior ostroflos oritur formamque capit quam lilia, si nonpurpureus color his, argenteus esset in illis.Non satis hoc Phoebo est (is enim fuit auctor honoris):ipse suos gemitus foliis inscribit, et AI AIflos habet inscriptum, funestaque littera dicta est.Nec genuisse pudet Sparten Hyacinthon, honorquedurat in hoc aevi, celebrandaque more priorumannua praelata redeunt Hyacinthia pompa.
If you should ask Amathus, which is richin metals, how can she rejoice and takea pride in deeds of her Propoetides;she would disclaim it and repudiatethem all, as well as those of transformed men,whose foreheads were deformed by two rough horns,from which their name Cerastae. By their gatesan altar unto Jove stood. If by chancea stranger, not informed of their dark crimes,had seen the horrid altar smeared with blood,he would suppose that suckling calves and sheepof Amathus, were sacrificed thereon—it was in fact the blood of slaughtered guests!Kind-hearted Venus, outraged by such deedsof sacrifice, was ready to deserther cities and her snake-infested plains;“But how,” said she, “have their delightful landstogether with my well built cities sinned?What crime have they done?—Those inhabitantsshould pay the penalty of their own crimesby exile or by death; or it may bea middle course, between exile and death;and what can that be, but the punishmentof a changed form?” And while she hesitates,in various thoughts of what form they should take,her eyes by chance, observed their horns,and that decided her; such horns could wellbe on them after any change occurred,and she transformed their big and brutal bodiesto savage bulls.But even after that,the obscene Propoetides dared to denydivinity of Venus, for which fault,(and it is common fame) they were the firstto criminate their bodies, through the wrathof Venus; and so blushing shame was lost,white blood, in their bad faces grew so fast,so hard, it was no wonder they were turnedwith small change into hard and lifeless stones.
At si forte roges fecundam Amathunta metallis,an genuisse velit Propoetidas, abnuat aequeatque illos, gemino quondam quibus aspera cornufrons erat: unde etiam nomen traxere Cerastae.Ante fores horum stabat Iovis Hospitis ara;ignarus sceleris quam siquis sanguine tinctamadvena vidisset, mactatos crederet illiclactantes vitulos Amathusiacasque bidentes:hospes erat caesus. Sacris offensa nefandisipsa suas urbes Ophiusiaque arva parabatdeserere alma Venus. “Sed quid loca grata, quid urbespeccavere meae? Quod” dixit “crimen in illis?Exsilio poenam potius gens impia pendat,vel nece, vel siquid medium est mortisque fugaeque.Idque quid esse potest, nisi versae poena figurae?”Dum dubitat, quo mutet eos, ad cornua vultumflexit et admonita est haec illis posse relinqui:grandiaque in torvos transformat membra iuvencos.Sunt tamen obscenae Venerem Propoetides ausaeesse negare deam. Pro quo sua, numinis ira,corpora cum forma primae vulgasse feruntur:utque pudor cessit sanguisque induruit oris,in rigidum parvo silicem discrimine versae.
Pygmalion saw these women waste their livesin wretched shame, and critical of faultswhich nature had so deeply planted throughtheir female hearts, he lived in preference,for many years unmarried.—But while hewas single, with consummate skill, he carveda statue out of snow-white ivory,and gave to it exquisite beauty, whichno woman of the world has ever equalled:she was so beautiful, he fell in lovewith his creation. It appeared in trutha perfect virgin with the grace of life,but in the expression of such modestyall motion was restrained—and so his artconcealed his art. Pygmalion gazed, inflamedwith love and admiration for the form,in semblance of a woman, he had carved.He lifts up both his hands to feel the work,and wonders if it can be ivory,because it seems to him more truly flesh. —his mind refusing to conceive of itas ivory, he kisses it and feelshis kisses are returned. And speaking love,caresses it with loving hands that seemto make an impress, on the parts they touch,so real that he fears he then may bruiseher by his eager pressing. Softest tonesare used each time he speaks to her. He bringsto her such presents as are surely prizedby sweet girls; such as smooth round pebbles, shells,and birds, and fragrant flowers of thousand tints,lilies, and painted balls, and amber tearsof Heliads, which distill from far off trees.—he drapes her in rich clothing and in gems:rings on her fingers, a rich necklace roundher neck, pearl pendants on her graceful ears;and golden ornaments adorn her breast.All these are beautiful—and she appearsmost lovable, if carefully attired,—or perfect as a statue, unadorned.He lays her on a bed luxurious, spreadwith coverlets of Tyrian purple dye,and naming her the consort of his couch,lays her reclining head on the most softand downy pillows, trusting she could feel.The festal day of Venus, known throughoutall Cyprus, now had come, and throngs were thereto celebrate. Heifers with spreading horns,all gold-tipped, fell when given the stroke of deathupon their snow-white necks; and frankincensewas smoking on the altars. There, intent,Pygmalion stood before an altar, whenhis offering had been made; and although hefeared the result, he prayed: “If it is true,O Gods, that you can give all things, I prayto have as my wife—” but, he did not dareto add “my ivory statue-maid,” and said,“One like my ivory—.” Golden Venus heard,for she was present at her festival,and she knew clearly what the prayer had meant.She gave a sign that her Divinityfavored his plea: three times the flame leaped highand brightly in the air.When he returned,he went directly to his image-maid,bent over her, and kissed her many times,while she was on her couch; and as he kissed,she seemed to gather some warmth from his lips.Again he kissed her; and he felt her breast;the ivory seemed to soften at the touch,and its firm texture yielded to his hand,as honey-wax of Mount Hymettus turnsto many shapes when handled in the sun,and surely softens from each gentle touch.He is amazed; but stands rejoicing in his doubt;while fearful there is some mistake, againand yet again, gives trial to his hopesby touching with his hand. It must be flesh!The veins pulsate beneath the careful testof his directed finger. Then, indeed,the astonished hero poured out lavish thanksto Venus; pressing with his raptured lipshis statue's lips. Now real, true to life—the maiden felt the kisses given to her,and blushing, lifted up her timid eyes,so that she saw the light and sky above,as well as her rapt lover while he leanedgazing beside her—and all this at once—the goddess graced the marriage she had willed,and when nine times a crescent moon had changed,increasing to the full, the statue-bridegave birth to her dear daughter Paphos. Fromwhich famed event the island takes its name.
Quas quia Pygmalion aevum per crimen agentesviderat, offensus vitiis, quae plurima mentifemineae natura dedit, sine coniuge caelebsvivebat thalamique diu consorte carebat.Interea niveum mira feliciter artesculpsit ebur formamque dedit, qua femina nascinulla potest: operisque sui concepit amorem.Virginis est verae facies, quam vivere credas,et, si non obstet reverentia, velle moveri:ars adeo latet arte sua. Miratur et hauritpectore Pygmalion simulati corporis ignes.Saepe manus operi temptantes admovet, an sitcorpus an illud ebur: nec adhuc ebur esse fatetur.Oscula dat reddique putat loquiturque tenetque,et credit tactis digitos insidere membris,et metuit, pressos veniat ne livor in artus.Et modo blanditias adhibet, modo grata puellismunera fert illi conchas teretesque lapilloset parvas volucres et flores mille colorumliliaque pictasque pilas et ab arbore lapsasHeliadum lacrimas; ornat quoque vestibus artus,dat digitis gemmas, dat longa monilia collo:aure leves bacae, redimicula pectore pendent.Cuncta decent: nec nuda minus formosa videtur.Conlocat hanc stratis concha Sidonide tinctisappellatque tori sociam, acclinataque collamollibus in plumis, tamquam sensura, reponit.Festa dies Veneris tota celeberrima Cyprovenerat, et pandis inductae cornibus aurumconciderant ictae nivea cervice iuvencae,turaque fumabant: cum munere functus ad arasconstitit et timide, “si di dare cuncta potestis,sit coniunx, opto” (non ausus “eburnea virgo”dicere) Pygmalion “similis mea” dixit “eburnae.”Sensit, ut ipsa suis aderat Venus aurea festis,vota quid illa velint; et, amici numinis omen,flamma ter accensa est apicemque per aera duxit.Ut rediit, simulacra suae petit ille puellaeincumbensque toro dedit oscula: visa tepere est.Admovet os iterum, manibus quoque pectora temptat:temptatum mollescit ebur positoque rigoresubsidit digitis ceditque, ut Hymettia solecera remollescit tractataque pollice multasflectitur in facies ipsoque fit utilis usu.Dum stupet et dubie gaudet fallique veretur,rursus amans rursusque manu sua vota retractat.Corpus erat: saliunt temptatae pollice venae.Tum vero Paphius plenissima concipit herosverba, quibus Veneri grates agat, oraque tandemore suo non falsa premit: dataque oscula virgosensit et erubuit timidumque ad lumina lumenattollens pariter cum caelo vidit amantem.Coniugio, quod fecit, adest dea. Iamque coactiscornibus in plenum noviens lunaribus orbemilla Paphon genuit, de qua tenet insula nomen.
The royal Cinyras was sprung from her;and if he had been father of no child,might well have been accounted fortunate—but I must sing of horrible events—avoid it daughters! Parents! shun this tale!But if my verse has charmed your thought,do not give me such credit in this part;convince yourself it cannot be true life;or, if against my wish you hear and mustbelieve it, then be sure to notice howsuch wickedness gets certain punishment.And yet, if Nature could permit such crimesas this to happen, I congratulateIsmarian people and all Thrace as well,and I congratulate this nation, whichwe know is far away from the land wherethis vile abomination did occur.The land we call Panchaia may be richin balsam, cinnamon, and costum sweetfor ointment, frankincense distilled from trees,with many flowers besides. All this large wealthcombined could never compensate the landfor this detestable, one crime: even thoughthe new Myrrh-Tree advanced on that rich soil.Cupid declares his weapons never causedan injury to Myrrha, and denieshis torches ever could have urged her crime.—one of the three bad sisters kindled this,with fire brand from the Styx, and poisoned youwith swollen vipers.—It is criminalto hate a parent, but love such as hersis certainly more criminal than hate.The chosen princes of all lands desireyou now in marriage, and young men throughoutthe Orient are vying for your hand.Choose, Myrrha one from all of these for yourgood husband; but exclude from such a thoughtyour father only. She indeed is quiteaware, and struggles bitterly againsther vile desires, and argues in her heart:—“What am I tending to? O listening GodsI pray for aid, I pray to Natural Love!Ah, may the sacred rights of parents keepthis vile desire from me, defend me froma crime so great—If it indeed is crime.I am not sure it is—I have not heardthat any god or written law condemnsthe union of a parent and his child.All animals will mate as they desire—a heifer may endure her sire, and whocondemns it? And the happy stud is notrefused by his mare-daughters: the he-goatconsorts unthought-of with the flock of whichhe is the father; and the birds conceiveof those from whom they were themselves begot.Happy are they who have such privilege!Malignant men have given spiteful laws;and what is right to Nature is decreedunnatural, by jealous laws of men.“But it is said there are some tribes today,in which the mother marries her own son;the daughter takes her father; and by this,the love kind Nature gives them is increasedinto a double bond.—Ah wretched me!Why was it not my fortune to be bornin that love-blessed land? I must abide,depressed by my misfortunes, in this place.“Why do I dwell on these forbidden hopes?Let me forget to think of lawless flame.My father is most worthy of my love,but only as a father.—If I werenot born the daughter of great Cinyras,I might be joined to him; but, as it stands,because he is mine he is never mine;because near to me he is far from me.“It would be better for me, if we werebut strangers to each other; for I then,could wish to go, and leave my native land,and so escape temptation to this crime:but my unhappy passion holds me here,that I may see Cinyras face to face,and touch him, talk with him and even kiss him—the best, if nothing else can be allowed.“But what more could be asked for, by the mostdepraved? Think of the many sacred tiesand loved names, you are dragging to the mire:the rival of your mother, will you bethe mistress of your father, and be namedthe sister of your son, and make yourselfthe mother of your brother? And will younot dread the sisters with black snakes for hair.Whom guilty creatures, such as you, can seebrandish relentless flames before their eyesand faces? While your body has not sinnedyou must not let sin creep into your heart,and violate great Nature's law with yourunlawful rovings. If you had the rightto long for his endearment, it could notbe possible. He is a virtuous manand is regardful of the moral law—oh how I wish my passion could be his!”And so she argued and declared her love:but Cinyras, her father, who was urgedby such a throng of suitors for her hand,that he could make no choice, at last inquiredof her, so she might make her heart's wish known.And as he named them over, asked her whichshe fixed her gaze upon her father's face,in doubtful agony what she could say,while hot tears filled her eyes. Her father, sureit all was of a virginal alarm,as he is telling her she need not weepdries her wet cheeks and kisses her sweet lips.Too much delighted with his gentle wordsand kind endearments, Myrrha, when he askedagain, which one might be her husband, said,“The one just like yourself.”, And he repliednot understanding what her heart would say,“You answer as a loving-daughter should.”When she heard “loving-daughter” said, the girltoo conscious of her guilt, looked on the ground.It was now midnight, peaceful sleep dissolvedthe world-care of all mortals, but of herwho, sleepless through the night, burnt in the flameof her misplaced affection. First despaircompels her to abandon every hope,and then she changes and resolves to try;and so she wavers from desire to shame,for she could not adhere to any plan.As a great tree, cut by the swinging axeis chopped until the last blow has been struck,then sways and threatens danger to all sides;so does her weak mind, cut with many blows,waver unsteadily—this way and that—and turning back and forth it finds no restfrom passion, save the rest that lies in death.The thought of death gave comfort to her heart.Resolved to hang herself, she sat upright;then, as she tied her girdle to a beam,she said, “Farewell, beloved Cinyras,and may you know the cause of my sad death.”And while she spoke those words, her fingers fixedthe noosed rope close around her death-pale neck.They say the murmur of despairing wordswas heard by her attentive nurse who watchedoutside the room. And, faithful as of old,she opened the shut door. But, when she sawthe frightful preparations made for death,the odd nurse screamed and beat and tore her breast,then seized and snatched the rope from Myrrha's neck;and after she had torn the noose apart,at last she had the time to weep and time,while she embraced the girl, to ask her whythe halter had been fastened round her neck.The girl in stubborn silence only fixedher eyes upon the ground—sad that her firstattempt at death, because too slow, was foiled.The old nurse-woman urged and urged, and showedher gray hair and her withered breasts, and beggedher by the memory of her cradle days,and baby nourishment, to hide no morefrom her long-trusted nurse what caused her grief.The girl turned from her questions with a sigh.The nurse, still more determined to know all,promised fidelity and her best aid—“Tell me,” she said, “and let me give you help;my old age offers means for your relief:if it be frantic passion, I have charmsand healing herbs; or, if an evil spellwas worked on you by someone, you shall becured to your perfect self by magic rites;or, if your actions have enraged the Gods,a sacrifice will satisfy their wrath.What else could be the cause? Your familyand you are prosperous—your mother dear,and your loved father are alive and well.”And, when she heard her say the name of father,a sigh heaved up from her distracted heart.But even after that the nurse could notconceive such evil in the girl's sick heart;and yet she had a feeling it must beonly a love affair could cause the crime:and with persistent purpose begged the cause.She pressed the weeping girl against her breast;and as she held her in her feeble arms,she said, “Sweet heart, I know you are in love:in this affair I am entirely yoursfor your good service, you must have no fear,your father cannot learn of it from me.,”just like a mad girl, Myrrha sprang away,and with her face deep-buried in a couch,sobbed out, “Go from me or stop asking memy cause of grief—it is a crime of shame—I cannot tell it!” Horrified the nursestretched forth her trembling hands, palsiedwith age and fear. She fell down at the feetof her loved foster-child, and coaxing herand frightening her, she threatened to discloseher knowledge of the halter and of whatshe knew of her attempted suicide;and after all was said, she gave her wordto help the girl, when she had given to hera true confession of her sad heart-love.The girl just lifted up her face, and laidit, weeping, on the bosom of her nurse.She tried so often to confess, and justas often checked her words, her shamed face hiddeep in her garment: “Oh”, at last she groans,“O mother blessed in your husband—oh!”Only that much she said and groaned. The nursefelt a cold horror stealing through her heartand frame, for she now understood it all.And her white hair stood bristling on her head,while with the utmost care of love and artshe strove to use appropriate words and deeds,to banish the mad passion of the girl.Though Myrrha knew that she was truly warned,she was resolved to die, unless she couldobtain the object of her wicked love.The nurse gave way at last as in defeat,and said, “Live and enjoy—” but did not dareto say, “your father”, did not finish, though,she promised and confirmed it with an oath.It was the time when matrons celebratethe annual festival of Ceres. Then,all robed in decent garments of snow-white,they bring garlands of precious wheat, which arefirst fruits of worship; and for nine nights theymust count forbidden every act of love,and shun the touch of man. And in that throng,Cenchreis, the king's wife, with constant careattended every secret rite: and sowhile the king's bed was lacking his true wife,one of those nights,—King Cinyras was drunkwith too much wine,—the scheming nurse informedhim of a girl most beautiful, whose lovefor him was passionate; in a false taleshe pictured a true passion. — When he askedthe maiden's age, she answered, “Just the sameas Myrrha's.” Bidden by the king to goand fetch her, the officious old nurse, whenshe found the girl, cried out; “Rejoice, my dear,we have contrived it!” The unhappy girlcould not feel genuine joy in her amazedand startled body. Her dazed mind was filledwith strange forebodings; but she did believeher heart was joyful.—Great excitement filledher wrecked heart with such inconsistencies.Now was the time when nature is at rest;between the Bears, Bootes turned his waindown to the west, and the guilty Myrrha turnsto her enormity. The golden moonflies from the heaven, and black clouds coverthe hiding stars and Night has lost her fires.The first to hide were stars of Icarusand of Erigone, in hallowed lovedevoted to her father. Myrrha thricewas warned by omen of her stumbling foot;the funeral screech-owl also warned her thrice,with dismal cry; yet Myrrha onward goes.It seems to her the black night lessens shame.She holds fast to her nurse with her left hand,and with the other hand gropes through the dark.And now they go until she finds the door.Now at the threshold of her father's room,she softly pushes back the door, her nursetakes her within. The girl's knees trembling sinkbeneath her. Her drawn bloodless face has lostits color, and while she moves to the crime,bad courage goes from her until afraidof her bold effort, she would gladly turnunrecognized. But as she hesitates,the aged crone still holds her by the hand;and leading her up to the high bed theredelivering Myrrha, says, “Now Cinyras,you take her, she is yours;” and leaves the pairdoomed in their crime — the father to pollutehis own flesh in his own bed; where he triesfirst to encourage her from maiden fears,by gently talking to the timid girl.He chanced to call her “daughter,” as a namebest suited to her age; and she in turn,endearing, called him “father”, so no namesmight be omitted to complete their guilt.She staggered from his chamber with the crimeof her own father hidden in her womb,and their guilt was repeated many nights;till Cinyras — determined he must knowhis mistress, after many meetings, broughta light and knew his crime had harmed his daughter.Speechless in shame he drew forth his bright swordout from the scabbard where it hung near by.—but frightened Myrrha fled, and so escapeddeath in the shadows of dark night. Gropingher pathless way at random through the fields,she left Arabia, famed for spreading palms,and wandered through Panchaean lands. Untilafter nine months of aimless wandering days,she rested in Sabaea, for she couldnot hold the burden she had borne so long.Not knowing what to pray for, moved alikeby fear of death and weariness of life,her wishes were expressed in prayer: “O Gods,if you will listen to my prayer, I donot shun a dreadful punishment deserved;but now because my life offends the living,and dying I offend the dead, drive mefrom both conditions; change me, and refusemy flesh both life and death!”Some god did listento her unnatural prayer; her last petitionhad answering gods. For even as she prayed,the earth closed over her legs; roots grew outand, stretching forth obliquely from her nails,gave strong support to her up-growing trunk;her bones got harder, and her marrow stillunchanged, kept to the center, as her bloodwas changed to sap, as her outstretching armsbecame long branches and her fingers twigs;and as her soft skin hardened into bark:and the fast-growing tree had closely boundher womb, still heavy, and had covered hersoft bosom; and was spreading quickly upto her neck.—She can not endure the strain,and sinking down into the rising wood,her whole face soon was hidden in the bark.Although all sense of human life was gone,as quickly as she lost her human form,her weeping was continued, and warm dropsdistilled from her (the tree) cease not to fall.There is a virtue even in her tears—the valued myrrh distilling from the trunk,keeps to her name, by which she still is known,and cannot be forgot of aging time.The guilt-begotten child had growth while woodwas growing, and endeavored now to finda way of safe birth. The tree-trunk was swellingand tightened against Myrrha, who, unableto express her torture, could not call uponLucina in the usual words of travail.But then just like a woman in great pain,the tree bends down and, while it groans, bedewsitself with falling tears. Lucina stoodin pity near the groaning branches, laidher hands on them, and uttered charms to aidthe hindered birth. The tree cracked open then,the bark was rent asunder, and it gave forthits living weight, a wailing baby-boy.The Naiads laid him on soft leaves, and theyanointed him with his own mother's tears.Even Envy would not fail to praise the child,as beautiful as naked cupids seenin chosen paintings. Only give to hima polished quiver, or take theirs from them,and no keen eye could choose him from their midst.
Editus hac ille est, qui, si sine prole fuisset,inter felices Cinyras potuisset haberi.Dira canam: procul hinc natae, procul este parentes!Aut, mea si vestras mulcebunt carmina mentes,desit in hac mihi parte fides, nec credite factum,vel, si credetis, facti quoque credite poenam.Si tamen admissum sinit hoc natura videri,gratulor huic terrae, quod abest regionibus illis,quae tantum genuere nefas. Sit dives amomocinnamaque costumque suum sudataque lignotura ferat floresque alios Panchaia tellus,dum ferat et murram: tanti nova non fuit arbor.Ipse negat nocuisse tibi sua tela Cupido,Myrrha, facesque suas a crimine vindicat isto.Stipite te Stygio tumidisque adflavit echidnise tribus una soror. Scelus est odisse parentem:hic amor est odio maius scelus. Undique lectite cupiunt proceres, totoque oriente iuventusad thalami certamen adest. Ex omnibus unumelige, Myrrha, virum: dum ne sit in omnibus unus.Illa quidem sentit foedoque repugnat amoriet secum “quo mente feror? quid molior?” inquit:“di, precor, et pietas sacrataque iura parentum,hoc prohibete nefas scelerique resistite nostro, —si tamen hoc scelus est. Sed enim damnare negaturhanc venerem pietas, coeuntque animalia nullocetera delicto. Nec habetur turpe iuvencaeferre patrem tergo, fit equo sua filia coniunx,quasque creavit init pecudes caper, ipsaque, cuiussemine concepta est, ex illo concipit ales.Felices, quibus ista licent! Humana malignascura dedit leges, et quod natura remittit,invida iura negant. Gentes tamen esse feruntur,in quibus et nato genetrix et nata parentiiungitur, ut pietas geminato crescat amore.Me miseram, quod non nasci mihi contigit illic,fortunaque loci laedor! — Quid in ista revolvor?Spes interdictae discedite! Dignus amariille, sed ut pater, est. — Ergo si filia magninon essem Cinyrae, Cinyrae concumbere possem;nunc quia iam meus est, non est meus, ipsaque damnoest mihi proximitas: aliena potentior essem.Ire libet procul hinc patriaeque relinquere fines,dum scelus effugiam. Retinet malus ardor amantem,ut praesens spectem Cinyram tangamque loquarqueosculaque admoveam, si nil conceditur ultra.Ultra autem spectare aliquid potes, impia virgo?Et quot confundas et iura et nomina, sentis!Tune eris et matris paelex et adultera patris?Tune soror nati genetrixque vocabere fratris?Nec metues atro crinitas angue sorores,quas facibus saevis oculos atque ora petentesnoxia corda vident? At tu, dum corpore non espassa nefas, animo ne concipe, neve potentisconcubitu vetito naturae pollue foedus.Velle puta: res ipsa vetat. Pius ille memorque estmoris — et o vellem similis furor esset in illo!”Dixerat, at Cinyras, quem copia digna procorum,quid faciat, dubitare facit, scitatur ab ipsanominibus dictis, cuius velit esse mariti.Illa silet primo, patriisque in vultibus haerensaestuat et tepido suffundit lumina rore.Virginei Cinyras haec credens esse timoris,flere vetat siccatque genas atque oscula iungit.Myrrha datis nimium gaudet: consultaque, qualemoptet habere virum, “similem tibi” dixit. At illenon intellectam vocem conlaudat et “estotam pia semper” ait. Pietatis nomine dictodemisit vultus sceleris sibi conscia virgo.Noctis erat medium, curasque et corpora somnussolverat. At virgo Cinyreia pervigil ignicarpitur indomito furiosaque vota retractat.Et modo desperat, modo vult temptare, pudetqueet cupit, et, quid agat, non invenit. Utque securisaucia trabs ingens, ubi plaga novissima restat,quo cadat, in dubio est omnique a parte timetur:sic animus vario labefactus vulnere nutathuc levis atque illuc momentaque sumit utroque.Nec modus aut requies, nisi mors, reperitur amoris.Mors placet. Erigitur laqueoque innectere faucesdestinat et zona summo de poste revincta“care vale Cinyra causamque intellege mortis!”dixit et aptabat pallenti vincula collo.Murmura verborum fidas nutricis ad aurespervenisse ferunt limen servantis alumnae.Surgit anus reseratque fores, mortisque parataeinstrumenta videns spatio conclamat eodemseque ferit scinditque sinus ereptaque collovincula dilaniat. Tum denique flere vacavit,tum dare complexus laqueique requirere causam.Muta silet virgo terramque inmota tueturet deprensa dolet tardae conamina mortis.Instat anus canosque suos et inania nudansubera per cunas alimentaque prima precatur,ut sibi committat, quidquid dolet. Illa rogantemaversata gemit. Certa est exquirere nutrixnec solam spondere fidem: “dic” inquit “opemqueme sine ferre tibi; non est mea pigra senectus.Seu furor est, habeo, quae carmine sanet et herbis,sive aliquis nocuit, magico lustrabere ritu,ira deum sive est, sacris placabilis ira.Quid rear ulterius? Certe fortuna domusquesospes et in cursu est, vivit genetrixque paterque.”Myrrha, patre audito, suspiria duxit ab imopectore. Nec nutrix etiamnum concipit ullummente nefas, aliquemque tamen praesentit amorem;propositique tenax, quodcumque est, orat, ut ipsiindicet, et gremio lacrimantem tollit aniliatque ita complectens infirmis membra lacertis“sensimus,” inquit “amas! sed et hic mea (pone timorem)sedulitas erit apta tibi, nec sentiet umquamhoc pater.” Exsiluit gremio furibunda torumqueore premens “discede, precor, miseroque pudoriparce!” ait. Instanti “discede, aut desine” dixit“quaerere, quid doleam: scelus est, quod scire laboras.”Horret anus tremulasque manus annisque metuquetendit et ante pedes supplex procumbit alumnaeet modo blanditur, modo, si non conscia fiat,terret; et indicium laquei coeptaeque minaturmortis et officium commisso spondet amori.Extulit illa caput lacrimisque implevit obortispectora nutricis; conataque saepe faterisaepe tenet vocem, pudibundaque vestibus oratexit et “o” dixit “felicem coniuge matrem!”Hactenus, et gemuit. Gelidus nutricis in artusossaque (sensit enim) penetrat tremor, albaque totovertice canities rigidis stetit hirta capillis.Multaque, ut excuteret diros, si posset, amores,addidit: at virgo scit se non falsa moneri,certa mori tamen est, si non potiatur amore.“Vive,” ait haec “potiere tuo” — et, non ausa “parente”dicere, conticuit promissaque numine firmat.Festa piae Cereris celebrabant annua matresilla, quibus nivea velatae corpora vesteprimitias frugum dant spicea serta suarumperque novem noctes venerem tactusque virilesin vetitis numerant. Turba Cenchreis in illaregis adest coniunx, arcanaque sacra frequentat.Ergo legitima vacuus dum coniuge lectus,nacta gravem vino Cinyram male sedula nutrix,nomine mentito veros exponit amoreset faciem laudat. Quaesitis virginis annis“par” ait “est Myrrhae.” Quam postquam adducere iussa estutque domum rediit, “gaude mea” dixit “alumna:vicimus.” Infelix non toto pectore sentitlaetitiam virgo, praesagaque pectora maerent;sed tamen et gaudet: tanta est discordia mentis.Tempus erat, quo cuncta silent, interque trionesflexerat obliquo plaustrum temone Bootes:ad facinus venit illa suum. Fugit aurea caeloluna, tegunt nigrae latitantia sidera nubes:nox caret igne suo. Primus tegis, Icare, vultusErigoneque pio sacrata parentis amore.Ter pedis offensi signo est revocata, ter omenfunereus bubo letali carmine fecit:it tamen, et tenebrae minuunt noxque atra pudorem;nutricisque manum laeva tenet, altera motucaecum iter explorat. Thalami iam limina tangit,iamque fores aperit, iam ducitur intus: at illipoplite succiduo genua intremuere, fugitqueet color et sanguis, animusque relinquit euntem.Quoque suo propior sceleri est, magis horret, et ausipaenitet, et vellet non cognita posse reverti.Cunctantem longaeva manu deducit et altoadmotam lecto cum traderet “accipe,” dixit“ista tua est, Cinyra” devotaque corpora iunxit.Accipit obsceno genitor sua viscera lectovirgineosque metus levat hortaturque timentem.Forsitan aetatis quoque nomine “filia” dixit,dixit et illa “pater,” sceleri ne nomina desint.Plena patris thalamis excedit et impia dirosemina fert utero conceptaque crimina portat.Postera nox facinus geminat. Nec finis in illa est:cum tandem Cinyras, avidus cognoscere amantempost tot concubitus, inlato lumine viditet scelus et natam, verbisque dolore retentispendenti nitidum vagina deripit ensem.Myrrha fugit, tenebrisque et caecae munere noctisintercepta neci est: latosque vagata per agrospalmiferos Arabas Panchaeaque rura reliquit;perque novem erravit redeuntis cornua lunae,cum tandem terra requievit fessa Sabaea;vixque uteri portabat onus. Tum nescia votiatque inter mortisque metus et taedia vitaeest tales complexa preces: “O siqua patetisnumina confessis, merui nec triste recusosupplicium. Sed ne violem vivosque superstesmortuaque exstinctos, ambobus pellite regnismutataeque mihi vitamque necemque negate.”Numen confessis aliquod patet: ultima certevota suos habuere deos. Nam crura loquentisterra supervenit, ruptosque obliqua per unguesporrigitur radix, longi firmamina trunci;ossaque robur agunt, mediaque manente medullasanguis it in sucos, in magnos bracchia ramos,in parvos digiti, duratur cortice pellis.Iamque gravem crescens uterum perstrinxerat arborpectoraque obruerat collumque operire parabat,non tulit illa moram venientique obvia lignosubsedit mersitque suos in cortice vultus.Quae quamquam amisit veteres cum corpore sensus,flet tamen, et tepidae manant ex arbore guttae.Est honor et lacrimis, stillataque robore murranomen erile tenet nulloque tacebitur aevo.At male conceptus sub robore creverat infansquaerebatque viam, qua se genetrice relictaexsereret: media gravidus tumet arbore venter.Tendit onus matrem: neque habent sua verba dolores,nec Lucina potest parientis voce vocari.Nitenti tamen est similis curvataque crebrosdat gemitus arbor lacrimisque cadentibus umet.Constitit ad ramos mitis Lucina dolentesadmovitque manus et verba puerpera dixit.Arbor agit rimas et fissa cortice vivumreddit onus, vagitque puer; quem mollibus herbisnaides impositum lacrimis unxere parentis.Laudaret faciem Livor quoque. Qualia namquecorpora nudorum tabula pinguntur Amorum,talis erat: sed, ne faciat discrimina cultus,aut huic adde leves, aut illi deme pharetras.