Orpheus and Eurydice - Ovidius...

P. Ovidius Naso, Art of Love, Remedy of Love,
Art of Beauty, Court of Love, History of Love,
Amours various, Ed.

Orpheus and Eurydice

So in old times the mournful Orpheus stood,
Drowning his sorrows in the Stygian flood,
Whose lamentable story seems to be
The nearest instance of a wretch like me.
Already had he pass'd the courts of death,
And charm'd with sacred verse the powers beneath;
While hell with silent admiration hung
On the soft music of his harp and tongue,
And the black roofs restored the wond'rous song.
No longer Tantalus essay'd to sip
The springs that fled from his deluded lip.
Their urn the fifty maids no longer fill;
Ixion lean'd and listen'd on his wheel,
And Sisyphus's stone for once stood still.
The ravenous vulture had forsook his meal,
And Tityus felt his growing liver heal;
Relenting fields to torture souls forbore,
And furies wept who never wept before;
All hell in harmony was heard to move
With equal sweetness as the spheres above.
Nor longer was his charming prayer denied;
All hell consented to release his bride.
Yet could the youth but short possession boast,
For what his poem gain'd, his passion lost;
Ere they restor'd her back to him and life,
They made him on these terms receive his wife:
If till he quite had pass'd the shades of night,
And reach'd the confines of ethereal light,
lie turn'd to view his prize, his wretched prize
Again was doom'd to vanish from his eyes.
Long had he wander'd on, and long forborne
To look, but was at last compelled to turn.
And now arriv'd where the sun's piercing ray
Struck thro' the gloom, and made a doubtful day,
Backwards his eyes the impatient lover cast
For one dear look, and that one look his last.
Straight from his sight flies his unhappy wife,
Who now liv'd twice, and twice was robb'd of life.
In vain to catch the fleeting shade he sought,
She too in vain bent backwards to be caught.
Gods ! what tumultuous raging passions toss'd
His anxious heart, when he perceiv'd her lost!
How wildly did his dreadful eye-balls roll!
How did all hell at once oppress his soul!
To what sad height was his direction grown!
How deep his just despair! how near my own!
In vain with her he labour'd to return,
All he could do was to sit down and mourn.
In vain, but ne'er before in vain, lie sings
At once the saddest and the sweetest things.
Stay, dear Eurydice, (he cries) ah! stay;
Why fleets the lovely shade so fast away?
Why am not I permitted to pursue?
Why will not rig'rous hell receive me too?
Already had she reach'd the farther shore,
And I, alas! allow'd to pass no more;
Imprison'd closer in the dismal coast
She's now for ever, ever, ever lost.
No charms a second time can set her fiee,
Hell has her now again: would hell had me!
From all his pains let Tityus be releas'd.
And in his stead unhappier Orpheus plac'd.
He feels no torture I'll refuse to bear,
Her loss is worse than all he suffers there.
Is this your bounty then? ye powers below!
And these the short-lived blessings you bestow?
Why did you such a cruel cov'nant make !
Which you but too well knew I needs must break.
Ah! by this artifice, too late I find
Your envious nature never was inclin'd
To be entirely good, or thoroughly kind.
Had you persisted to refuse the grant,
I should not then have known the double want.
This was contrived by some malicious power,
To swell my woes and make my miseries more.
Plung'd in despair far deeper than at first,
And blest, a short, short while, to be for ever curst.
Al ! yet again relent, again restore
My wretched bride, be bounteous as before.
Ah ! let the force of verse as powerful be
O'er you, as was the force of love o'er me:
And the dear forfeit once again resign,
Which but for too much love had still been mine.
By that immense and awful sway you bear,
That silent horror that inhabits here;
By these vast realms, and that unquestion'd right,
By which you rule this everlasting night;
By these my tears and pray'rs, which once could move,
Once more I beg you to release my love.
Let her a little while with me remain,
A little while, and she is yours again.
The date of mortal life is finish'd soon,
Swift is the race, and short the time to run.
Inevitable fate your night secures,
And she, and I, and all at last are yours."
So sung the charming youth, in such a strain;
But sung, and charm'd the second time in vain,
No longer could he move the powers below,
Lost were his numbers then, as mine are now.
Torn with despair, he leaves the Stygian lakes;
And back to light a loathsome journey takes.
No light could cheer him in his cruel woes,
Who bears about his grief where'er he goes.
In sacred verse his sad complaints he vents,
And all the day, and all the night laments.
Incessantly he sings, whose moving song
Draws trees, and stones, and list'ning herds along.
The Sylvan gods, and wood-nymphs stood around,
And melting maids were ravish'd at the sound.
All hear the wondrous notes, and all that heard,
With utmost art address'd the mournful bard.
Not all their charms his constancy could move,
Who fled the thoughts of any second love.
When mad to see him slight their raging fire,
To mortal hate converting fierce desire,
With their own hands they made the youth expire.
Such proofs, my Delia, would I gladly give;
For thee I'd die, without thee will not live.
I've felt already the severest smart
Death can inflict, for it was death to part.

P. Ovidius Naso. Ovid's Art of Love (in three Books), the Remedy of Love, the Art of Beauty, the Court of Love, the History of Love, and Amours. Anne Mahoney. edited for Perseus. New York. Calvin Blanchard. 1855.
Fund for the Improvement of Postsecondary Education provided support for entering this text.

The Parting

What souls about to leave their bodies bear,
Forced to forsake their long-lov'd mansions there;
The dying anguish, the convulsive pain,
And all the racking tortures they sustain;
And most of all, the doubt, the dreadful fear
When thrust out thence, to go they know not where;
My soul such pangs, such sad distractions knew,
Forced by despairing love to part with you.
Fix'd on that face where I could ever dwell,
Charm'd into silence by some magic spell,
I sigh'd and shook, and could not say farewell.
Down my sad cheeks did tears in torrents roll,
And death's cold damp sat heavy on my soul.
My trembling eyes swain in a native flood,
As fast as they wept tears my heart wept blood.
All signs of desp'rate grief possess'd the face,
My sinking feet seem root'd to their place,
And scarce could bear me to the last embrace.
Gods! where was then my soul? that parting kiss
Was both the last, and dearest taste of bliss.
Ah ! since that fatal time, I could not boast
Of love, or life, or soul; all, all is lost.
When the last moment that I had to stay,
Call'd me, like one condemn'd to death, away,
With staggering steps I did my path pursue,
Yet oft I turn'd to take another view,
Oft gaz'd and sigh'd, and murmur'd out adieu.

P. Ovidius Naso. Ovid's Art of Love (in three Books), the Remedy of Love, the Art of Beauty, the Court of Love, the History of Love, and Amours. Anne Mahoney. edited for Perseus. New York. Calvin Blanchard. 1855.
Fund for the Improvement of Postsecondary Education provided support for entering this text.


The Parting of Achilles and Deidamia

Thus young Achilles, in Bithynia's court,
Had made a private, and a long resort;
Dress'd like a maid, the better to improve,
With this fair princess, undiscover'd love.
Where hours and days, he might secure receive
The mighty bliss that mutual love could give.
Where in full joys the youthful pair remain'd,
And nought awhile but laughing pleasures reign'd.
Till at the last, the gods were envious grown,
To see the bliss of man surpass their own.
All Greece was now with Helen's rape alarm'd,
And all its princes to revenge her arm'd.
When spiteful pow'rs foretold them, their descent
Would be in vain, unless Achilles went.
In vain they might the Phrygian coasts invade,
Scale Troy in vain, no onset could be made,
That should succeed, without that hero's aid.
And now Ulysses, by a crafty flight,
Had found him out in his disguise's spite.
Who though betray'd by his unhappy fate,
Had too much sense of honour to retreat;
Which when his charming Deidamia knew,
She to her late discover'd lover flew.
On his dear neck her snowy arms she hung,
And streaming tears awhile restrained her tongue.
But at the last, her dismal silence broke,
These mournful words the weeping princess spoke.
"Whither, ah! whither would Achilles flee?
From all he's dearest to, from love and me?
Are not my charms the same? the same their pow'r?
Have I lost mine? or has Bellona more?
Oh! let me not so poorly be forsook
But view me, view me with your usual look.
Would you, unkind, from these embraces break?
Is glory grown so strong, or I so weak?
Glory is not your only call, I fear;
You go to meet some other mistress there.
Go then, ungrateful; though from me you fly,
You'll never meet with one so fond as I;
But some camp mistress, lavish of her charms,
Devoted to a thousand rival arms.
Then will you think, when she is common grown,
On Deidamia, who was all your own.
Thus will I clasp thee to my panting breast,
And thus detain thee to my bosom press'd;
And while I fold thee thus, and thus dispense
These kisses, to restore thy wandering sense,
What dismal sound of war shall snatch thee hence
What though the gods have order'd you shall go,
Or Greece return inglorious from her foe?
Have not the self-same cruel gods decreed,
That if you went you should as surely bleed?
Then since your fate is destin'd to be such,
Ah! think, can any Troy be worth so much!
Let Greece whatever she please for vengeance give,
Secure at home shall my Achilles live !
Troy, built by heavenly hands, may stand or fall;
You never shall obey the fatal call;
Your Deidamia swears you shall not go,
Life would be dear to you if she were so.
If not your own, at least my safety prize,
For with Achilles Deidamia dies."
All this and more, the lovely mournful maid
Told the sad youth, who sigh'd at all she said;
Yet would he not his resolution break,
Where all his fame and honour lay at stake.
Now would he think on arms; but when he gave
A sidelong glance on her he was to leave,
Then his tumultuous thoughts began to jar,
And love and glory held a doubtful war;
Till with a deep drawn sigh, and mighty course
Of tears, which nothing else but love could force,
To the dear maid he turns his wat'ry eyes,
And to her sad discourse as sad replies:
"Thou late best blessing of my joyful heart,
Now grown my grief, since I must now depart,
Behold the pangs I bear; look up and see
How much I grieve to go, and comfort me.
Curse on that cunning traitor's smooth deceit,
Whose craft has made me, to my ruin, great;
Curse on that artifice by which I fell;
Curse on these hands for wielding swords so well
Though I should ne'er so fit for battle prove,
All my ambition's to be fit for love:
In his soft wars I would my life beguile,
With thee contend in the transporting toil,
Ravish'd to read my triumph in thy smile.
Boldly I'd strive, yet e'en when conquering yield
To thee the glory of the bloodless field;
With liquid fires melt the rich beauties down,
Rifle thy wealth, yet give thee all my own;
So should our wars be rapture and delight,-
But now I'm summon'd to another fight.
'Tis not my fault that I am forc'd away,
But when my honour calls, I must obey.
Durst I not death and every danger brave,
I were not worthy of the bliss I have;
More hazards than another would I meet,
Only to lay more laurels at your feet.
Oh ! do not fear that I should faithless prove,
For you, my only life, have all my love;
The thought of you shall help me to subdue,
I'll conquer faster, to return to you.
But if my honours should be laid in dust,
And I must fall, as heaven has said I must,
E'en in my death my only grief will be
That I for ever shall be snatch'd from thee;
That, that alone occasions all my fears,
Shakes my resolve, and melts me into tears.
My beating heart pants to thee as I speak,
And wishes, rather than depart, to break.
Feel how it trembles with a panic fright
Sure it will never fail me thus in fight.
I cannot longer hold this fond discourse,
For now the trumpets sound our sad divorce;
Sound ev'ry trumpet there, beat ev'ry drum,
Use all your charms to make Achilles come.
Farewell!-Alas ! I have not time to tell
How wondrous loath I part! -Once more, farewell!
Remember me as I'll remember you;
Like me be constant, and like me be true:
Gods! I shall ne'er be gone; adieu, adieu, adieu!'

P. Ovidius Naso. Ovid's Art of Love (in three Books), the Remedy of Love, the Art of Beauty, the Court of Love, the History of Love, and Amours. Anne Mahoney. edited for Perseus. New York. Calvin Blanchard. 1855.
Fund for the Improvement of Postsecondary Education provided support for entering this text.

Absence

Happy that am'rous youth whose mistress hears
His swelling sighs, and sees his falling tears.
What savage maid her pity can deny
A breaking heart and a still streaming eye?
Absent, alas! he spends them all in vain,
While the dear cause is ign'rant of his pain.
Yet wretched as he is, he might be blest,
Could he himself contribute to his rest;
Would he resolve to struggle through the net,
And but a while endeavour to forget.
But his mad thoughts run ev'ry passage o'er,
And anxious mem'ry makes his passion more;
Perplexing mem'ry, that renews the scene
Of his past cares, and keeps him still in pain;
Keeps a poor wretch perpetually oppress'd,
And never lets unhappy lovers rest;
Lets them no pangs, no cruel suffrings lose,
But heaps their past upon their present woes.
Such was Leander's mem'ry when remov'd,
And sunder'd by the seas from all he lov'd.
The gather'd winds had wrought the tempest high,
Toss'd up the ocean, and obscur'd the sky;
And at this time, with an impetuous sway,
Pour'd forth their forces and possess'd the sea.
When the bold youth stood raging on the beach,
To view the much-lov'd coast he could not reach
His restless eyes ran all the distance o'er,
And from afar discern'd his Hero's tow'r.
Thrice, naked, in the waves his skill he tried,
And strove, as he was us'd, to stem the tide;
But tumbling billows threaten'd present wreck,
And rising up against him, dashed him back.
Then like a gallant soldier, forc'd to go,
Full of brave wrath, from a prevailing foe,
Again to town he makes his sad resort,
To see what ships would loosen from the port;
Finding but one durst launch into the seas,
He writes a letter fill'd with words like these.-

P. Ovidius Naso. Ovid's Art of Love (in three Books), the Remedy of Love, the Art of Beauty, the Court of Love, the History of Love, and Amours. Anne Mahoney. edited for Perseus. New York. Calvin Blanchard. 1855.
Fund for the Improvement of Postsecondary Education provided support for entering this text.