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  • P. Ovidius Naso, Metamorphoses (ed. Brookes More)

    Book 5

    Editions and translations: English (ed. Brookes More) | Latin (ed. Hugo Magnus) | English (ed. Arthur Golding)
    Your current position in the text is marked in red. Click anywhere on the line to jump to another position.
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    “For this the Nymph, Alpheian, raised her head
    above Elean waves; and having first
    pushed back her dripping tresses from her brows,
    back to her ears, she thus began to speak;
    ‘O mother of the virgin, sought throughout
    the globe! O mother of nutritious fruits!
    Let these tremendous labours have an end;
    do not increase the violence of thy wrath
    against the Earth, devoted to thy sway,
    and not deserving blame; for only force
    compelled the Earth to open for that wrong.
    Think not my supplication is to aid
    my native country; hither I am come
    an alien: Pisa is my native land,
    and Elis gave me birth. Though I sojourn
    a stranger in this isle of Sicily
    it yet delights me more than all the world.

    ‘I, Arethusa, claim this isle my home,
    and do implore thee keep my throne secure,
    O greatest of the Gods! A better hour,
    when thou art lightened of thy cares, will come,
    and when thy countenance again is kind;
    and then may I declare what cause removed
    me from my native place--and through the waves
    of such a mighty ocean guided me
    to find Ortygia.

    ‘Through the porous earth
    by deepest caverns, I uplift my head
    and see unwonted stars. Now it befell,
    as I was gliding far beneath the world,
    where flow dark Stygian streams, I saw
    thy Proserpine. Although her countenance
    betrayed anxiety and grief, a queen She reigned
    supremely great in that opacous world
    queen consort mighty to the King of Hell.’
    “Astonished and amazed, as thunderstruck,
    when Proserpina's mother heard these words,
    long while she stood till great bewilderment
    gave way to heavy grief. Then to the skies,
    ethereal, she mounted in her car
    and with beclouded face and streaming hair
    stood fronting Jove, opprobrious. ‘I have come
    O Jupiter, a suppliant to thee,
    both for my own offspring as well as thine.
    If thy hard heart deny a mother grace,
    yet haply as a father thou canst feel
    some pity for thy daughter; and I pray
    thy care for her may not be valued less
    because my groaning travail brought her forth.--
    My long-sought daughter has at last been found,
    if one can call it, found, when certain loss
    more certain has been proved; or so may deem
    the knowledge of her state.--But I may bear
    his rude ways, if again he bring her back.

    ‘Thy worthy child should not be forced to wed
    a bandit-chief, nor should my daughter's charms
    reward his crime.’ She spoke;--and Jupiter
    took up the word; ‘This daughter is a care,
    a sacred pledge to me as well as thee;
    but if it please us to acknowledge truth,
    this is a deed of love and injures not.
    And if, O goddess, thou wilt not oppose,
    such law-son cannot compass our disgrace:
    for though all else were wanting, naught can need
    Jove's brother, who in fortune yields to none
    save me. But if thy fixed desire compel
    dissent, let Proserpine return to Heaven;
    however, subject to the binding law,
    if there her tongue have never tasted food--
    a sure condition, by the Fates decreed.’
    he spoke; but Ceres was no less resolved
    to lead her daughter thence.

    “Not so the Fates
    permit.--The virgin, thoughtless while she strayed
    among the cultivated Stygian fields,
    had broken fast. While there she plucked the fruit
    by bending a pomegranate tree, and plucked,
    and chewed seven grains, picked from the pallid rind;
    and none had seen except Ascalaphus--
    him Orphne, famed of all Avernian Nymphs,
    had brought to birth in some infernal cave,
    days long ago, from Acheron's embrace--
    he saw it, and with cruel lips debarred
    young Proserpine's return. Heaving a sigh,
    the Queen of Erebus, indignant changed
    that witness to an evil bird: she turned
    his head, with sprinkled Phlegethonian lymph,
    into a beak, and feathers, and great eyes;
    his head grew larger and his shape, deformed,
    was cased in tawny wings; his lengthened nails
    bent inward;--and his sluggish arms
    as wings can hardly move. So he became
    the vilest bird; a messenger of grief;
    the lazy owl; sad omen to mankind.

    “The telltale's punishment was only just;
    O Siren Maids, but wherefore thus have ye
    the feet and plumes of birds, although remain
    your virgin features? Is it from the day
    when Proserpina gathered vernal flowers;
    because ye mingled with her chosen friends?
    And after she was lost, in vain ye sought
    through all the world; and wished for wings to waft
    you over the great deep, that soon the sea
    might feel your great concern.--The Gods were kind:
    ye saw your limbs grow yellow, with a growth
    of sudden-sprouting feathers; but because
    your melodies that gently charm the ear,
    besides the glory of your speech, might lose
    the blessing, of a tongue, your virgin face
    and human voice remained.

    “But Jupiter,
    the mediator of these rival claims,
    urged by his brother and his grieving sister,
    divided the long year in equal parts.
    Now Proserpina, as a Deity,
    of equal merit, in two kingdoms reigns:--
    for six months with her mother she abides,
    and six months with her husband.--Both her mind
    and her appearance quickly were transformed;
    for she who seemed so sad in Pluto's eyes,
    now as a goddess beams in joyful smiles;
    so, when the sun obscured by watery mist
    conquers the clouds, it shines in splendour forth.


    Preferred URL for linking to this page: http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/cgi-bin/ptext?lookup=Ov.+Met.+5.487

    The National Endowment for the Humanities provided support for entering this text.

    This text is based on the following book(s):
    Ovid. Metamorphoses. Brookes More. Boston. Cornhill Publishing Co. 1922.
    OCLC: 24965574


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