The first and fairest of his loves was she
Whom not blind Fortune, but the dire decree
Of angry Cupid forced him to desire:
Daphne her name, and Peneus was her sire.
Swell’d with the pride that new success attends,
He sees the stripling, while his bow he bends,
And thus insults him: “Thou lascivious boy,
Are arms like these for children to employ?
Know, such achievements are my proper claim,
Due to my vigour and unerring aim;
Resistless are my shafts, and Python late,
In such a feather’d death, has found his fate.
Take up thy torch (and lay my weapons by),
With that the feeble souls of lovers fry.”
To whom the son of Venus thus replied:
“Phoebus, thy shafts are sure on all beside;
But mine on Phoebus; mine the fame shall be
Of all thy conquests, when I conquer thee.”
He said, and soaring, swiftly wing’d his flight,
Nor stopp’d, but on Parnassus’ airy height.
Two different shafts he from his quiver draws;
One to repel desire, and one to cause.
One shaft is pointed with refulgent gold,
To bribe the love, and make the lover bold:
One blunt, and tipp’d with lead, whose base allay
Provokes disdain, and drives desire away.
The blunted bolt against the nymph he dress’d,
But with the sharp transfix’d Apollo’s breast.
The enamour’d deity pursues the chase;
The scornful damsel shuns his loath’d embrace:
In hunting beasts of prey her youth employs,
And Phoebe rivals in her rural joys:
With naked neck she goes, and shoulders bare,
And with a fillet binds her flowing hair.
By many suitors sought, she mocks their pains,
And still her vow’d virginity maintains.
On wilds and woods she fixes her desire;
Nor knows what youth and kindly love inspire.
Her father chides her oft: “Thou owest,” says he,
“A husband to thyself, a son to me.”
She, like a crime, abhors the nuptial bed;
She glows with blushes, and she hangs her head:
Then, casting round his neck her tender arms,
Soothes him with blandishments and filial charms.
“Give me, my lord,” she said, “to live and die
A spotless maid, without the marriage tie;
’Tis but a small request; I beg no more
Than what Diana’s father gave before.”
The good old sire was soften’d to consent;
But said her wish would prove her punishment;
For so much youth and so much beauty join’d,
Opposed the state which her desires design’d.
The god of light, aspiring to her bed,
Hopes what he seeks, with flattering fancies fed,
And is, by his own oracles, misled.
And as in empty fields the stubble burns,
Or nightly travellers, when day returns,
Their useless torches on dry hedges throw,
That catch the flames, and kindle all the row;
So burns the god, consuming in desire,
And feeding in his breast a fruitless fire:
Her well-turn’d neck he view’d (her neck was bare),
And on her shoulders her dishevell’d hair:
“O were it comb’d,” said he, “with what a gace
Would every waving curl become her face!”
He view’d her eyes, like heavenly lamps that shone.
He view’d her lips, too sweet to view alone.
Swift as the wind the damsel fled away,
Nor did for these alluring speeches stay.
“Stay, nymph,” he cried, “I follow, not a foe.
Thus from the lion trips the trembling doe;
Thus from the wolf the frighten’d lamb removes,
And from pursuing falcons fearful doves:
Thou shunn’st a god, and shunn’st a god that loves.
Ah, lest some thorn should pierce thy tender foot,
Or thou shouldst fall in flying my pursuit!
To sharp uneven ways thy steps decline;
Abate thy speed, and I will hate of mine.
Yet think from whom thou dost so rashly fly;
Nor basely born, nor shepherd’s swain am I.
Perhaps thou know’st not my superior state;
And from that ignorance proceeds thy hate.
Me Claros, Delphos, Tenedos, obey;
These hands the Patareian sceptre sway:
The king of gods begot me: what shall be,
Or is, or ever was, in fate, I see:
Mine is the invention of the charming lyre:
Sweet notes, and heavenly numbers, I inspire:
Sure is my bow, unerring is my dart;
But ah! more deadly his who pierced my heart.
Med’cine is mine; what herbs and simples grow
In fields and forests, all their powers I know,
And am the great physician call’d below.
Alas! that fields and forests can afford
No remedies to heal their lovesick lord:
To cure the pains of love no plant avails;
And his own physic the physician fails.”
She heard not half, so furiously she flies;
And on her ear the imperfect accent dies.
Fear gave her wings; and, as she fled, the wind
Increasing, spread her flowing hair behind.
As when the impatient greyhound, slipp’d from far,
Bounds o’er the glebe, to course the fearful hare,
She in her speed does all her safety lay;
And he with double speed pursues the prey;
O’erruns her at the sitting turn, and licks
His chaps in vain, and blows upon the flix:
She scapes, and for the neighb’ring covert strives,
And, gaining shelter, doubts if yet she lives.
If little things with great we may compare,
Such was the god, and such the flying fair;
She, urged by fear, her feet did swiftly move,
But he more swiftly, who was urged by love.
He gathers ground upon her in the chase;
Now breathes upon her hair, with nearer pace;
And just is fastening on the wish’d embrace.
The nymph grew pale, and, in a mortal fright,
Spent with the labour of so long a flight,
And now despairing, cast a mournful look
Upon the streams of her paternal brook:
“O help,” she cried, “in this extremest need!
If water-gods are deities indeed;
Gape earth, and this unhappy wretch entomb;
Or change my form, whence all my sorrows come.”
Scarce had she finish’d, when her feet she found
Benumb’d with cold, and fasten’d to the ground;
A filmy rind about her body grows;
Her hair to leaves, her arms extend to boughs:
The nymph is all into a laurel gone;
The smoothness of her skin remains alone.
Yet Phoebus loves her still, and casting round
Her bole his arms, some little warmth he found.
The tree still panted in the unfinish’d part,
Not wholly vegetive, and heaved her heart.
He fix’d his lips upon the trembling rind;
It swerved aside, and his embrace declined:
To whom the god, “Because thou canst not be
My mistress, I espouse thee for my tree:
Be thou the prize of honour and renown;
The deathless poet, and the poem, crown:
Thou shalt the Roman festivals adorn,
And, after poets, be by victors worn:
Thou shalt returning Caesar’s triumph grace,
When pomps shall in a long procession pass;
Wreath’d on the post before his palace wait,
And be the sacred guardian of the gate:
Secure from thunder, and unharm’d by Jove;
Unfading as the immortal powers above:
And as the locks of Phoebus are unshorn,
So shall perpetual green thy boughs adorn.”
The grateful tree was pleased with what he said,
And shook the shady honours of her head.