Leander s Epistle to Hero - Ovidius...

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

Leander's Epistle to Hero

"Read this; yet be not troubled when you read,
Your lover comes not in his letter's stead.
On you all health, all happiness attend,
Which I would much, much rather bring than send.
But now these envious storms obstruct my way,
And only this bold bark durst put to sea.
I too had come, had not my parents' spies
Stood by to watch me with suspicious eyes.
How many tedious days and nights are past,
Since I was suffer'd to behold you last?
Ye spiteful gods and goddesses, who keep
Your wat'ry courts within the spacious deep,
Whys at this time, are all the winds broke forth,
Why swells the seas beneath the furious north?
'Tis summer now, when all should be serene;
The skies unclouded, undisturb'd the main:
Winter is yet unwilling to appear,
But you invert the seasons of the year.
Yet let me once attain the wish'd for beach,
Out of the now malicious Neptune's reach;
Then blow, ye winds; ye troubled billows roar;
Roll on ye angry waves, and lash the shore;
Ruffle the seas, drive the tempestuous air;
Be one continu'd storm, to keep me there.
Ah Hero, when to you my course is bent,
I seem to slide along a smooth descent.
But in returning thence, I clamber up,
And scale, methinks, some lofty mountain's top.
Why, when our souls by mutual love are join'd,
Why are we sunder'd by the sea and wind?
Either make my Abydos your retreat,
Or let your Sestos be my much lov'd seat.
This plague of absence I can bear no more,
Come what can come, I'll shortly venture o'er;
Not all the rage of seas, nor force of storms,
Nothing but death, shall keep me from your arms:
Yet may that death at least so friendly prove,
To float me to the coast of her I love.
Let not the thought occasion any fear;
Doubt not, I will be soon and safely there:
But till that time, let this employ your hours,
And show ou that I can be none but yours."
Meanwhile, the vessel from the land withdrew,
When heaven took pity on a love so true;
The winds to blow, the waves to toss forbore,
In leaps the ravish'd youth, and ventures o'er,
With a smooth passage to the farther shore.
Now to the port the prosp'rous lover drives,
And safely after all his toils arrives.
Dissolved in bliss, he lies the live-long night,
Melts, languishes, and dies in vast delight.
But that delight my muse forbears to sing,
She knows the weakness of her infant wing.
As when the painter strove to draw the chief
Of all the Grecians, in his height of grief;
In ev'ry limb the well-shap'd piece excell'd,
But coming to the face, his pencil fail'd.
There modestly he staid, and held, for fear
He should not reach the woe he fancied there;
But round the mournful head a veil he threw
That man might guess at what he could not show.
So when our pleasures rise to excess,
No tongue can tell it, and no pen express.
Love will not have his mysteries revealed,
And beauty keeps the joys it gives concealed.
And till those joys my Delia lets me know,
To me they shall continue ever so.
Ah! Delia, would indulgent love decree,
Thy faithful slave that heaven of bliss with thee:
What then should be my verse? what darling flights
Should my muse take? reach what celestial heights?
Now in despair, with drooping notes she sings,
No dawn of hope to raise her on her wings.
In the warm spring the warbling birds rejoice,
And in the smiling sunshine tune their voice.
Bask'd in the beams, they strain their tender throats,
Where cheerful light inspires the charming notes.
Such, and so charming, should my numbers be,
If you, my only light, would smile on me.
Your influence would inspire as moving airs,
And make my song as soft and sweet as theirs.
Would you but once auspiciously incline
To raise his fame, who only writes for thine;
I'd sing such notes as none but you could teach,
And none but one who loves like me can reach.
Secure of you, what raptures could I boast?
How wretched shall I be when you are lost?
Ah ! think what pangs despairing lovers prove,
And what a blest estate were mutual love.
How might my soul be with your favour rais'd?
And how in pleasing you, myself be pleas'd?
With what delight, what transport, could I burn?
Did but my flames receive the least return.
How would one tender look, one pitying smile,
Or one kind word from you, reward my toil?
It must, and would your tend'rest pity move,
Were you but once convince'd how well I love.
By ev'ry power that reigns and rules on high,
By love, the mightiest power of all the sky;
By your dear self, the last great oath, I swear,
That neither life, nor soul, are half so dear.
What need I these superfluous vows repeat?
Already sigh'd so often at your feet.
You know my passion is sincere and true,
I love you to excess; you know I do.
No tongue, no pen, can what I feel express,
E'en poetry itself must make it less.
You haunt me still, wherever I remove,
There's no retreat secure from fate, or love.
My soul from yours no distance can divide,
No rocks, nor caves, can from your presence hide.
By day, your lovely form fills all my sight,
Nor do I lose you, when I lose the light,
You are the charming phantom of the night.
Still your dear image dances in my view,
And all my restless thoughts run still on you;
You only are the sleeping poet's dream,
And when awake, you only are his theme.
Were I, by some yet harder fortune hurl'd
To the remotest parts of all the world;
The coldest northern clime, the torrid zone,
Should hear me sing of you, and you alone.
That pleasing task should all my hours employ,
Spent in a charming melancholy joy.
The chorus of the birds, the whisp'ring boughs,
And murm'ring streams, should join to sooth my woes:
My thoughts of you should yield a sad delight,
While joy and grief contend like day and night.
With smiles and tears, resembling sun and rain,
To keep the pleasure, I'd endure the pain;
If such content my troubled soul could know,
Such satisfaction, mix'd with so much woe;
If but my thoughts could keep my wishes warm,
Ah! how would your transporting presence charm
How pleasant would these pathless wilds appear,
Were you alone my kind companion here!
What should I then have left me to deplore ?
Oh! what society to wish for more?
No country thou art in can desert be,
And towns are desolate depriv'd of thee.
Banish'd with thee, I could an exile bear;
Banish'd from thee, the banishment lies there.
I to some lonely isle with thee could fly,
Where not a creature dwells but thou and I;
Where a wide-spreading main around us roars,
Besprinkling with its foam our desert shores;
Where winds and waves in endless wars engage,
And high-wrought tides roll with eternal rage;
Where ships far off their fearful courses steer,
And no bold vessel ever ventures near.
Should rising seas swell over ev'ry coast,
Were mankind in a second deluge lost,
Did only two of all the world survive,
Only one man, one woman left alive,
And should the gods that lot to us allow,
Were I Deucalion, and my Pyrrha thou,
Contentedly I should my fate embrace,
And would not beg them to renew our race;
All my most ardent wishes should implore,
All I should ask from each indulgent pow'r,
Would be to keep thee safe, and have no more.
Your cruelty occasions all my smart,
Your kindness could restore my bleeding heart.
You work me to a storm, you make me calm;
You give the wound, and can infuse the balm.
Of you I boast, of you alone complain,
My greatest pleasure and my greatest pain.
Whene'er you grieve I can no comfort know,
And when you first are pleas'd, I must be so;
While you are well, there's no disease I feel,
And I enjoy no health when you are ill.
Whate'er you do my actions does direct;
Your smile can raise me, and your frown deject.
Whome'er you love, I by the self same fate,
Love too; and hate, whatever wretch you hate;
With yours, my wishes and my passions join,
Your humor and your int'rest, all is mine.
I share in all; nor can my fortunes be
Unhappy, let but fortune smile on thee.
You can preserve, you only can destroy,
Increase my sorrow, or create my joy.
From you, and you alone, my doom I wait,
You are the star whose influence rules my fate.
On yours my being, and my life depend,
And mine shall last no more, when yours must end.
No toil would be too great, no task too hard,
Were you at last to be my rich reward.
In serving you I'd spend my latest breath,
Brave any danger, run on any death.
I live but for your sake, and when I die,
All I shall pray for is, may you be by.
No life, like living with thee, can delight;
No death can please, like dying in thy sight.
Oh! when I must, by heaven's severe decree,
Be snatch'd from all that's dear, be snatch'd from thee,
Mayst thou be present to dispel my fear,
And soften with thy charms the pangs I bear.
While on thy lips I pour my parting breath;
Look thee all o'er, and clasp thee close in death;
Sigh out my soul upon thy panting breast,
And with a passion not to be expressed,
Sink at thy feet into eternal rest.

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.


Narcissus and Echo

The vocal nymph this lovely huntsman view'd,
As he into the toils his prey pursu'd,
Though of the power of speaking first debarr'd,
She could not hold from answering what she heard.
The jealous Juno by her wiles betray'd,
Took this revenge on the deceitful maid,
For when she might have seiz'd her faithless Jove,
Often in am'rous thefts of lawless love;
Her tedious talk would make the goddess stay,
And give her rivals time to run away:
Which when she found, she cried, "For such a wrong,
Small be the power of that deluding tongue."
Immediately the deed confirm'd the threats,
For Echo only what she hears repeats.
Now at the sight of the fair youth she glows,
And follows silently where'er he goes.
The nearer she pursu'd, the more she mov'd
Thro' the dear track he trode, the more she lov'd.
Still her approach inflamed her fierce desire,
As sulph'rous torches catch the neighb'ring fire.
How often would she strive, but strove in vain,
To tell the passion and confess her pain?
A thousand tender things her thoughts suggest,
With which she would have woo'd; but they suppress'd
For want of speech, lay buried in her breast.
Begin she could not, but she staid to wait
Till he should speak, and she his speech repeat.
Now several ways his young companions gone,
And for some time Narcissus left alone;
Where are you all?" at last she hears him call;
And she straight answers him, "Where are you all?"
Around he lets his wandering eye-sight roam,
But sees no creature whence the voice should come.
"Speak yet again," he cries, "is any nigh?"
Again the mournful Echo answers, "I."
"Why come not you!" says he, "appear in view:"
She hastily returns, " Why come not you ?"
Once more the voice th' astonish'd huntsman tried,
Louder he called, and louder she replied.
Then let us join," at last Narcissus said;
"Then let us join," replied the ravish'd maid.
Scarce had she spoke, when from the woods she sprung,
And on his neck with close embraces hung.
But he with all his strength unlocks her fold,
And breaks unkindly from her feeble hold:
Then proudly cries, "Life shall this breast forsake
Ere you, loose nymph, on me your pleasure take."
"On me your pleasure take," the nymph replies,
While from her the disdainful huntsman flies.
Repuls'd, with speed she seeks the gloomiest groves,
And pines to think on her rejected loves.
Alone laments her ill-requited flame,
And in the closest thickets shrouds her shame.
Her rage to be refus'd yields no relief,
But her fond passion is encreas'd by grief.
The thoughts of such a slight all sleep suppress'd,
And kept her languishing for want of rest:
Now pines she quite away with anxious care,
Her skin contracts, her blood dissolves to air,
Nothing but voice and bones she now retains,
These turn to stones, but still the voice remains:
In woods, caves, hills, for ever hid she lies,
Heard by all ears, but never seen by eyes.
Thus her and other nymphs his proud disdain
With an unheard of cruelty had slain;
Many on mountains and in rivers born,
Thus perish'd underneath his haughty scorn;
When one who in their suffrings bore a share,
With suppliant hands address'd this humble pray'r,
Thus may he love himself, and thus despair!"
Nor were her pray'rs at an ill hour preferr'd;
Rhamnusia, the revengeful goddess, heard.
Nature had plac'd a crystal fountain near,
The water deep, but to the bottom clear;
Whose silver spring ascended gently up,
And bubbled softly to the silent top.
The surface smooth as icy lakes appear'd,
Unknown by herdsman, undisturb'd by herd.
No bending tree above its surface grows,
Or scatters thence its leaves or broken boughs;
Yet at a just convenient distance stood,
All round the peaceful spring, a stately wood,
Thro' whose thick tops no sun could shoot his beams,
Nor view his image in the silver streams.
Thither from hunting, and the scorching heat,
The wearied youth was one day led by fate:
Down on his face to drink the spring he lies,
But as his image in that glass he spies,
He drinks in passion deeper at his eyes.
His own reflection works his wild desire,
And he himself sets his own self on fire:
Fix'd as some statue, he preserves his place,
Intent his looks, and motionless his face;
Deep thro' the spring his eye-balls dart their beams,
Like midnight stars that twinkle in the streams.
His iv'ry neck the crystal mirrow shows,
His waving hair above the surface flows,
His cheeks reflect the lily and the rose.
His own perfection all his passions mov'd,
He loves himself who for himself was lov'd;
Who seeks, is sought; who kindles the desires,
Is scorch'd himself; who is admir'd, admires.
Oft would he the deceitful spring embrace,
And seek to fasten on that lovely face
Oft with his down-thrust arms he thought to fold
About that neck that still deludes his hold,
He gets no kisses from those coz'n'ng lips;
His arms grasp nothing; from himself he slips;
He knows not what he views, and yet pursues
His desp'rate love, and burns for what he views.
"Catch not so fondly at a fleeting shade,
And be no longer by yourself betray'd;
It borrows all it has from you alone,
And it can boast of nothing of its own:
With you it comes, with you it stays, and so
Would go away, had you the power to go."
Neither for sleep nor hunger would he move,
But gazing still augments his hopeless love;
Still o'er the spring lie keeps his bending head,
Still with that flatt'ring form his eyes lie fed,
And silently surveys the treacherous shade.
To the deaf woods at length his grief he vents,
And in these words the wretched youth laments:
Tell me, ye hills, and dales, and neighboring groves,
You that are conscious of so many loves;
Say, have you ever seen a lover pine
Like me, or ever knew a love like mine ?
I know not whence this sudden flame should come,
I like and see, but see I know not whom;
What grieves me more, no rocks, nor rolling seas,
Nor strong-wall'd cities, nor untrodden ways,
Only a slender silver stream destroys,
And casts the bar between our sundred joys;
E'en he too seems to feel an equal flame,
The same his passion, his desires the same;
As oft as I my longing lips incline
To join with his, his mouth to meet with mine.
So near our faces and our mouths approach,
That almost to ourselves we seem to touch.
Come forth, whoe'er thou art, and do not fly
From one so passionately fond as I;
I've nothing to deserve your just disdain,
But have been lov'd, as I love you, in vain.
Yet all the signs of mutual love you give,
And my poor hopes in all your actions live;
When in the stream our hands I strive to join,
Yours straight ascend, and half way grasp at mine.
You smile my smiles; when I a tear let fall,
You shed another, and consent in all;
And when I speak, your lovely lips appear
To utter something which I cannot hear.
Alas! 'tis I myself; too late I see,
My own deceitful shade has ruin'd me;
With a mad passion for myself I'm curs'd,
And bear about those flames I kindled first.
In so perplex'd a case, what can I do ?
Ask, or be ask'd? shall I be woo'd, or woo?
All that I wish, I have ; what would I more?
Ah ! 'tis my too great plenty makes me poor.
Divide me from myself, ye powers divine,
Nor let his being intermix with mine!
All that I love and wish for, now retake;
A strange request for one in love to make!
I feel my strength decay with inward grief,
And hope to lose my sorrows with my life;
Nor would I mourn my own untimely fate,
Were he I love allow'd a longer date:
This makes me at my cruel stars repine,
That his much dearer life must end with mine.'
This said, again he turns his wat'ry face,
And gazes wildly in the crystal glass,
While streaming tears from his full eye-lids fell,
And drop by drop rais'd circles in the well;
The several rings larger and larger spread,
And by degrees dispers'd the fleeting shade,
Which when perceiv'd, "Oh, whither would you go?
(He cries,) ah! whither, whither fly you now?
Stay, lovely shade, do not so cruel prove,
In leaving me, who to distraction love;
Let me still see what ne'er can be possess'd,
And with the sight alone my phrensy feast."
Now frantic with his grief, his robe he tears,
And tokens of his rage his bosom bears;
The cruel wounds on his pure body show,
Like crimson mingling with the whitest snow;
Like apples with vermilion-circle's stripe,
Or a fair bunch of grapes not fully ripe.
But when he looks and sees the wounds he made,
Writ on the bosom of the charming shade,
His sorrows would admit of no relief,
But all his sense was swallow'd in his grief.
As wax, near any kindled fuel plac'd,
Melts, and is sensibly perceiv'd to waste;
As morning frosts are found to thaw away,
When once the sun begins to warm the day;
So the fond youth dissolves in hopeless fires,
And by degrees consumes in vain desires.
His lovely cheeks now lost their white and red,
Diminish'd was his strength, his beauty fled;
His body from its just proportions fell,
Which the scorn'd Echo lately lov'd so well
Yet though her first resentments she retaind,
And still remember'd how she was disdain'd,
She sigh'd, and when the wretched lover cried,
"Alas! alas!" the woful nymph replied.
Then when, with cruel blows his hands would wound
His tender breast, she still restor'd the sound.
Now hanging o'er the spring his drooping head,
With a sad sigh these lying words lie said:
"Ah! boy, belov'd in vain!" through all the plain
Echo resounds, " Ah! boy, belov'd in vain!"
"Farewell," he cries, and with that word he died;
"Farewell!" the miserable nymph replied.
Now pale and breathless on the grass he lies,
For death had shut his self-admiring eyes;
Now wafted over to the Stygian coast,
The waters there reflect his wandering ghost;
In loud laments his weeping sisters mourn,
Which Echo makes the neighb'ring hills return.
All signs of desp'rate grief the nymphs express,
Great is the moan, yet is not Echo's less.

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.



Salmacis and Hermaphroditus

The lovely Salmacis the fountain own'd,
A nymph with ev'ry blooming beauty crown'd.
Unpractis'd in the chase, untaught to throw
The thrilling dart, or bend the stubborn bow.
Never engaged in races on the plain,
Nor ever mingling with Diana's train.
Oft would her sister say, "Rise, rise, for shame,
And join with us in some laborious game.
Seize on a quiver, or a pointed spear,
Hunt the wild boar, or chase the tim'rous deer;"
No quiver would she seize, no jav'lin shake,
No toil endure, in no fatigue partake.
But in her fountain is her sole delight,
For there she bathes by day, and rests by night;
Still in that liquid glass herself she dress'd,
And learn'd from thence what looks became her best.
Now in this lawn, her lovely limbs array'd,
Stretch'd at her length, on the soft moss were laid,
Through the transparent robes, to the full view display'd.
Now languishing she lies, and gathers flowers,
Pluck'd from the blooming sides of neighb'ring bow'rs:
Thus was she busied, when she chanced to spy
The lovely son of Hermes passing by.
At the first sight she found her wishes fired,
And the fair youth, as soon as seen, desired.
Yet would she not approach, though mad to meet,
Though she could scarce hold back her eager feet,
Till she might first her utmost skill bestow,
To make her beauties to advantage show :
Use all her art to let her charms appear,
Who, without art, might well be reckon'd fair.
At last attir'd she comes, at once she breaks
Into these moving words, and meltingly she speaks.
"Such charms, dear youth, dwell in your lovely face,
I cannot think you born of human race.
If then a god descended from above,
You are not, sure, less than the god of love.
But if you spring not from the race divine,
If come from any of a mortal line;
Happy, thrice happy, must thy parents be,
And all thy kindred bless'd, and proud of thee.
Blest were that woman's breasts who fed thee first
In whose fond arms thy infancy was nurs'd.
But more, -- Oh! infinitely more than all the rest,
Must the fair partner of thy bed be bless'd!
If there be such, let us the bliss divide,
Too great to be by any one enjoy'd.
If not already bound by nuptial vows,
Seal them with me, make me the joyful spouse."
Here stopt the love-sick nymph; whose boldness made
The bashful youth blush for the things she said.
Still lovelier in his blushes look'd the boy,
Still her desires grew fiercer to enjoy.
So blushes fruit upon the sunny-side,
So iv'ry shows with deep vermilion died.
So in eclipses looks the lab'ring moon,
When stain'd with red, her struggling face is shown.
Nearer and nearer now the virgin moved,
Ready to seize upon the swain she loved.
Disdainfully he flies her fond embrace,
And cries, with bashful anger in his face,
"Forbear, loose nyrmph, or I'll forsake the place."
She at that menace from the man she loved,
Replied, "'Tis yours, fair youth," and so removed.
Yet at some distance, in a thicket hid,
The maid observ'd whate'er the charmer did.
Who now believing that he was not seen,
With bolder steps trips o'er the flow'ry green.
Now to the banks of that delightful stream,
Which the fair nymph that loved him own'd, he came,
Dipt in his feet, and thence by small degrees,
Pleased with the warmth he waded to the knees:
Then back unto the banks again he goes,
Down on the ground his silken garments throws,
And to the ravish'd maid, all, all the man he shows.
His naked charms her wondering sight amaz'd
Who now with more impatient longings gaz'd.
Her eyes shoot fires, and shine with sparkling flames,
As when the sun plays on the silver streams,
Or when a crystal glass reflects the beams.
Mad to possess her bliss, about to fly,
To seize and fasten on the lovely boy,
She burns with the delay of the transporting joy.
Now from the flow'ry bank on which he stood,
The lovely youth leap'd down into the flood.
His skillful arms support his snowy limbs,
Still glittering thro' the streams in which he swims
Like iv'ry statues which the life surpass,
Or lilies cover'd with a crystal glass.
"He's mine, he's mine," the ravish'd virgin cries;
And straight disrob'd of all, impatient flies,
And plunging in the flood, pursues her joys.
Now o'er his neck her circling arms she cast,
Now threw them lower, o'er his struggling waist.
Her twining limbs on ev'ry side she wound,
Lock'd him all o'er, and clasp'd him all around.
"So when a tow'ring eagle's talons bear
A Snake close grip'd, and hissing thro' the air
About his neck the curling serpent clings,
And fetters with his tail his spacious wings."
Still, tho' detain'd, the boy the bliss denies,
Still struggles to resist the virgin's joys.
"In vain you strive," she cries," this proud disdain,
Foolish, ungrateful youth, is all in vain.
Grant ye, good gods, no day, no time may see
Me sever'd from this youth, or he from me."
To the maid's prayer propitious gods inclin'd,
Straight into one their different forms were twin'd,
And as they mingled souls, their bodies join'd.

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.