Metamorphoses

  until his heart was utterly afire,

  and hope sustained his unrequited passion.

  He gazes on her hair without adornment:

  “What if it were done up a bit?” he asks,

  and gazes on her eyes, as bright as stars,

  and on that darling little mouth of hers,

  though sight is not enough to satisfy;

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  he praises everything that he can see—

  her fingers, hands, and arms, bare to her shoulders—

  and what is hidden prizes even more.

  She flees more swiftly than the lightest breeze,

  nor will she halt when he calls out to her:

  “Daughter of Peneus, I pray, hold still,

  hold still! I’m not a foe in grim pursuit!

  Thus lamb flees wolf, thus dove from eagle flies

  on trembling wings, thus deer from lioness,

  thus any creature flees its enemy,

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  but I am stalking you because of love!

  “Wretch that I am: I’m fearful that you’ll fall,

  brambles will tear your flesh because of me!

  The ground you’re racing over’s very rocky,

  slow down, I beg you, restrain yourself in flight,

  and I will follow at a lesser speed.

  “Just ask yourself who finds you so attractive!

  I’m not a caveman, not some shepherd boy,

  no shaggy guardian of flocks and herds—

  you’ve no idea, rash girl, you’ve no idea

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  whom you are fleeing, that is why you flee!

  “Delphi, Claros, Tenedos are all mine,

  I’m worshiped in the city of Patara!

  Jove is my father, I alone reveal

  what was, what is, and what will come to be!

  The plucked strings answer my demand with song!

  “Although my aim is sure, another’s arrow

  proved even more so, and my careless heart

  was badly wounded—the art of medicine

  is my invention, by the way, the source

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  of my worldwide fame as a practitioner

  of healing through the natural strength of herbs.

  “Alas, there is no herbal remedy

  for the love that I must suffer, and the arts

  that heal all others cannot heal their lord—”

  He had much more to say to her, but Daphne

  pursued her fearful course and left him speechless,

  though no less lovely fleeing him; indeed,

  disheveled by the wind that bared her limbs

  and pressed the blown robes to her straining body

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  even as it whipped up her hair behind her,

  the maiden was more beautiful in flight!

  But the young god had no further interest

  in wasting his fine words on her; admonished

  by his own passion, he accelerates,

  and runs as swiftly as a Gallic hound

  chasing a rabbit through an open field;

  the one seeks shelter and the other, prey—

  he clings to her, is just about to spring,

  with his long muzzle straining at her heels,

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  while she, not knowing whether she’s been caught,

  in one swift burst, eludes those snapping jaws,

  no longer the anticipated feast;

  so he in hope and she in terror race.

  But her pursuer, driven by his passion,

  out speeds the girl, giving her no pause,

  one step behind her, breathing down her neck;

  her strength is gone; she blanches at the thought

  of the effort of her swift flight overcome,

  but at the sight of Peneus, she cries,

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  “Help me, dear father! If your waters hold

  divinity, transform me and destroy

  that beauty by which I have too well pleased!”

  Her prayer was scarcely finished when she feels

  a torpor take possession of her limbs—

  her supple trunk is girdled with a thin

  layer of fine bark over her smooth skin;

  her hair turns into foliage, her arms

  grow into branches, sluggish roots adhere

  to feet that were so recently so swift,

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  her head becomes the summit of a tree;

  all that remains of her is a warm glow.

  Loving her still, the god puts his right hand

  against the trunk, and even now can feel

  her heart as it beats under the new bark;

  he hugs her limbs as if they were still human,

  and then he puts his lips against the wood,

  which, even now, is adverse to his kiss.

  “Although you cannot be my bride,” he says,

  “you will assuredly be my own tree,

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  O Laurel, and will always find yourself

  girding my locks, my lyre, and my quiver too—

  you will adorn great Roman generals

  when every voice cries out in joyful triumph

  along the route up to the Capitol;

  you will protect the portals of Augustus,

  guarding, on either side, his crown of oak;

  and as I am—perpetually youthful,

  my flowing locks unknown to the barber’s shears—

  so you will be an evergreen forever

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  bearing your brilliant foliage with glory!”

  Phoebus concluded. Laurel shook her branches

  and seemed to nod her summit in assent.

  Jove and Io (1)

  There is a grove in Thessaly, enclosed

  on every side by high and wooded hills:

  they call it Tempe. The river Peneus,

  which rises deep within the Pindus range,

  pours its turbulent waters through this gorge

  and over a cataract that deafens all

  its neighbors far and near, creating clouds

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  that drive a fine, cool mist along, until

  it drips down through the summits of the trees.

  Here is the house, the seat, the inner chambers

  of the great river; here Peneus holds court

  in his rocky cavern and lays down the law

  to water nymphs and tributary streams.

  First to assemble were the native rivers,

  uncertain whether to congratulate,

  or to commiserate with Daphne’s father:

  the Sperchios, whose banks are lined with poplars,

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  the ancient Apidanus and the mild

  Aeas and Amprysus; others came later—

  rivers who, by whatever course they take,

  eventually bring their flowing streams,

  weary of their meandering, to sea.

  Inachus was the only river absent,

  concealed in the recesses of his cave:

  he added to his volume with the tears

  he grimly wept for his lost daughter Io,

  not knowing whether she still lived or not;

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  but since he couldn’t find her anywhere,

  assumed that she was nowhere to be found—

  and in his heart, he feared a fate far worse.

  For Jupiter had seen the girl returning

  from her father’s banks and had accosted her:

  “O maiden worthy of almighty Jove

  and destined to delight some lucky fellow

  (I know not whom) upon your wedding night,

  come find some shade,” he said, “in these deep woods—”

  (showing her where the woods were very shady)

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  “while the sun blazes high above the earth!

  “But if you’re worried about entering

  the haunts of savage beasts all by y
ourself,

  why, under the protection of a god

  you will be safe within the deepest woods—

  and no plebeian god, for I am he

  who bears the celestial scepter in his hand,

  I am he who hurls the roaming thunderbolt—

  don’t run from me!”

  But run she did, through Lerna

  and Lyrcea, until the god concealed

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  the land entirely beneath a dense

  dark mist and seized her and dishonored her.

  Juno, however, happened to look down

  on Argos, where she noticed something odd:

  swift-flying clouds had turned day into night

  long before nighttime. She realized

  that neither falling mist nor rising fog

  could be the cause of this phenomenon,

  and looked about at once to find her husband,

  as one too well aware of the connivings

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  of a mate so often taken in the act.

  When he could not be found above, she said,

  “Either I’m mad—or I am being had.”

  She glided down to earth from heaven’s summit

  immediately and dispersed the clouds.

  Having intuited his wife’s approach,

  Jove had already metamorphosed Io

  into a gleaming heifer—a beauty still,

  even as a cow. Despite herself,

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  Juno gave this illusion her approval,

  and feigning ignorance, asked him whose herd

  this heifer had come out of, and where from;

  Jove, lying to forestall all inquiries

  as to her origin and pedigree,

  replied that she was born out of the earth.

  Then Juno asked him for her as a gift.

  What could he do? Here is his beloved:

  to hand her over is unnatural,

  but not to do so would arouse suspicion;

  shame urged him onward while love held him back.

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  Love surely would have triumphed over shame,

  except that to deny so slight a gift

  to one who was his wife and sister both

  would make it seem that this was no mere cow!

  Her rival given up to her at last,

  Juno feared Jove had more such tricks in mind,

  and couldn’t feel entirely secure

  until she’d placed this heifer in the care

  of Argus, the watchman with a hundred eyes:

  in strict rotation, his eyes slept in pairs,

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  while those that were not sleeping stayed on guard.

  No matter where he stood, he looked at Io,

  even when he had turned his back on her.

  He let her graze in daylight; when the sun

  set far beneath the earth, he penned her in

  and placed a collar on her indignant neck.

  She fed on leaves from trees and bitter grasses,

  and had no bed to sleep on, the poor thing,

  but lay upon the ground, not always grassy,

  and drank the muddy waters from the streams.

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  Having no arms, she could not stretch them out

  in supplication to her warden, Argus;

  and when she tried to utter a complaint

  she only mooed—a sound which terrified her,

  fearful as she now was of her own voice.

  Io at last came to the riverbank

  where she had often played; when she beheld

  her own slack jaws and newly sprouted horns

  in the clear water, she fled, terrified!

  Neither her naiad sisters nor her father

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  knew who this heifer was who followed them

  and let herself be petted and admired.

  Inachus fed her grasses from his hand;

  she licked it and pressed kisses on his palm,

  unable to restrain her flowing tears.

  If words would just have come, she would have spoken,

  telling them who she was, how this had happened,

  and begging their assistance in her case;

  but with her hoof, she drew lines in the dust,

  and letters of the words she could not speak

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  told the sad story of her transformation.

  “Oh, wretched me,” cried Io’s father, clinging

  to the lowing calf’s horns and snowy neck.

  “Oh, wretched me!” he groaned. “Are you the child

  for whom I searched the earth in every part?

  Lost, you were less a grief than you are, found!

  “You make no answer, unable to respond

  to our speech in language of your own,

  but from your breast come resonant deep sighs

  and—all that you can manage now—you moo!

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  “But I—all unaware of this—was busy

  arranging marriage for you, in the hopes

  of having a son-in-law and grandchildren.

  Now I must pick your husband from my herd,

  and now must find your offspring there as well!

  “Nor can I end this suffering by death;

  it is a hurtful thing to be a god,

  for the gates of death are firmly closed against me,

  and our sorrows must go on forever.”

  And while the father mourned his daughter’s loss,

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  Argus of the hundred eyes removed her

  to pastures farther off and placed himself

  high on a mountain peak, a vantage point

  from which he could keep watch in all directions.

  The ruler of the heavens cannot bear

  the sufferings of Io any longer,

  and calls his son, born of the Pleiades,

  and orders him to do away with Argus.

  Without delay, he takes his winged sandals,

  his magic, sleep-inducing wand, and cap;

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  and so equipped, the son of father Jove

  glides down from heaven’s summit to the earth,

  where he removes and leaves behind his cap

  and winged sandals, but retains the wand;

  and sets out as a shepherd, wandering

  far from the beaten path, driving before him

  a flock of goats he rounds up as he goes,

  while playing tunes upon his pipe of reeds.

  The guardian of Juno is quite taken

  by this new sound: “Whoever you might be,

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  why not come sit with me upon this rock,”

  said Argus, “for that flock of yours will find

  the grass is nowhere greener, and you see

  that there is shade here suitable for shepherds.”

  The grandson of great Atlas takes his seat

  and whiles away the hours, chattering

  of this and that—and playing on his pipes,

  he tries to overcome the watchfulness

  of Argus, struggling to stay awake;

  even though Slumber closes down some eyes,

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  others stay vigilant. Argus inquired

  how the reed pipes, so recently invented,

  had come to be, and Mercury responded:

  Pan and Syrinx

  “On the idyllic mountains of Arcadia,

  among the hamadryads of Nonacris,

  one was renowned, and Syrinx was her name.

  Often she fled—successfully—from Satyrs,

  and deities of every kind as well,

  those of the shady wood and fruited plain.

  “In her pursuits and in virginity

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  Diana was her model, and she wore

  her robe hitched up and girt above the knees

  just as her goddess did; and if her bow

  had been made out of gold, instead of horn,


  anyone seeing her might well have thought

  she was the goddess—as, indeed, some did.

  “Wearing his crown of sharp pine needles, Pan

  saw her returning once from Mount Lycaeus,

  and began to say….”

  There remained to tell

  of how the maiden, having spurned his pleas,

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  fled through the trackless wilds until she came

  to where the gently flowing Ladon stopped

  her in her flight; how she begged the water nymphs

  to change her shape, and how the god, assuming

  that he had captured Syrinx, grasped instead

  a handful of marsh reeds! And while he sighed,

  the reeds in his hands, stirred by his own breath,

  gave forth a similar, low-pitched complaint!

  The god, much taken by the sweet new voice

  of an unprecedented instrument,

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  said this to her: “At least we may converse

  with one another—I can have that much.”

  That pipe of reeds, unequal in their lengths,

  and joined together one-on-one with wax,

  took the girl’s name, and bears it to this day.

  Now Mercury was ready to continue

  until he saw that Argus had succumbed,

  for all his eyes had been closed down by sleep.

  He silences himself and waves his wand

  above those languid orbs to fix the spell.

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  Without delay he grasps the nodding head

  and where it joins the neck, he severs it

  with his curved blade and flings it bleeding down

  the steep rock face, staining it with gore.

  O Argus, you are fallen, and the light

  in all your lamps is utterly put out:

  one hundred eyes, one darkness all the same!

  Jove and Io (2)

  But Saturn’s daughter rescued them and set

  those eyes upon the feathers of her bird,

  filling his tail with constellated gems.

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  Her rage demanded satisfaction, now:

  the goddess set a horrifying Fury

  before the eyes and the imagination

  of her Grecian rival; and in her heart

  she fixed a prod that goaded Io on,

  driving her in terror through the world

  until at last, O Nile, you let her rest

  from endless labor; having reached your banks,

  she went down awkwardly upon her knees,

  and with her neck bent backward, raised her face

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  as only she could do it, to the stars;

  and with her groans and tears and mournful mooing,

  entreated Jove, it seemed, to put an end

  to her great suffering.

  Jove threw his arms

  around the neck of Juno in embrace,

  imploring her to end this punishment:

  “In future,” he said, “put your fears aside: