Pallas, attending to the muse’s song,
Approved the just resentment of their wrong,
And thus reflects: “While tamely I commend
Those who their injured deities defend,
My own divinity affronted stands,
And calls aloud for justice at my hands;”
Then takes the hint, ashamed to lag behind,
And on Arachne bends her vengeful mind;
One at the loom so excellently skill’d,
That to the goddess she refused to yield.
Low was her birth, and small her native town:
She from her art alone obtain’d renown.
Idmon, her father, made it his employ
To give the spongy fleece a purple die:
Of vulgar strain her, mother, lately dead,
With her own rank had been content to wed;
Yet she their daughter, though her time was spent
In a small hamlet, and of mean descent,
Through the great towns of Lydia gain’d a name,
And fill’d the neighb’ring countries with her fame.
Oft, to admire the niceness of her skill,
The nymphs would quit their fountain, shade, or hill;
Thither, from green Tymolus, they repair,
And leave the vineyards, their peculiar care:
Thither, from famed Partolus’ golden stream,
Drawn by her art, the curious Naiads came:
Nor would the work, when finish’d, please so much,
As, while she wrought, to view each graceful touch:
Whether the shapeless wool in balls she wound,
Or with quick motion turn’d the spindle round,
Or with her pencil drew the neat design,
Pallas, her mistress, shone in every line.
This the proud maid, with scornful air, denies,
And ev’n the goddess at her work defies;
Disowns her heavenly mistress every hour,
Nor asks her aid, nor deprecates her power.
“Let us,” she cries, “but to a trial come,
And, if she conquers, let her fix my doom.”
The goddess then a beldam’s form put on;
With silver hairs her hoary temples shone;
Propp’d hy a staff, she hobbles in her walk,
And, tottering, thus begins her old wives’ talk:
“Young maid attend, nor stubbornly despise
The admonitions of the old and wise;
For age, though scorn’d, a ripe experience bears,
That golden fruit, unknown to blooming years:
Still may remotest fame your labours crown,
And mortals your superior genius own;
But to the goddess yield, and, humbly meek,
A pardon for your bold presumption seek:
The goddess will forgive.” At this the maid,
With passion fired, her gliding shuttle stay’d,
And, darting vengeance, with an angry look,
To Pallas in disguise thus fiercely spoke:
“Thou doting thing, whose idle, babbling tongue
But too well shows the plague of living long,
Hence, and reprove, with this your sage advice,
Your giddy daughter, or your awkward niece:
Know I despise your counsel, and an still
A woman, ever wedded to my will;
And, if your skilful goddess better knows,
Let her accept the trial I propose.”
“She does,” impatient Pallas straight replies,
And, clothed with heavenly light, sprung from her odd disguise.
The nymphs and virgins of the plain adore
The awful goddess, and confess her power:
The maid alone stood unappall’d, yet show’d
A transient blush, that for a moment glow’d,
Then disappear’d, as purple streaks adorn
The opening beauties of the rosy morn;
Till Phoebus, rising prevalently bright,
Allays the tincture with his silver light.
Yet she persists, and, obstinately great,
In hopes of conquest, hurries on her fate.
The goddess now the challenge waves no more,
Nor, kindly good, advises as before.
Straight to their posts appointed both repair,
And fix their threaded looms with equal care:
Around the solid beam the web is tied,
While hollow canes the parting warp divide,
Through which, with nimble flight, the shuttles play,
And for the woof prepare a ready way:
The woof and warp unite, press’d by the toothy sley.
Thus both, their mantles button’d to their breast,
Their skilful fingers play with willing haste,
And work with pleasure, while they cheer the eye
With glowing purple of the Tyrian die:
Or, justly intermixing shades with light,
Their colourings insensibly unite.
As when a shower, transpierced with sunny rays,
Its mighty arch along the heaven displays,
From whence a thousand different colours rise,
Whose fine transition cheats the clearest eyes:
So like the intermingled shading seems,
And only differs in the last extremes,
Then threads of gold both artfully dispose,
And, as each part in just proportion rose,
Some antique fable in their work disclose.
Pallas in figures wrought the heavenly powers,
And Mars’s hill among the Athenian towers:
On lofty thrones twice six celestials sate,
Jove in the midst, and held their warm debate;
The subject weighty, and well known to fame.
“From whom the city should receive its name.”
Each god by proper features was express’d;
Jove, with majestic mien, excell’d the rest:
His three-fork’d mace the dewy sea-god shook,
And, looking sternly, smote the ragged rock,
When from the stone leap’d forth a sprightly steed,
And Neptune claims the city for the deed.
Herself she blazons, with a glittering spear,
And crested helm, that veil’d her braided hair,
With shields, and scaly breastplate, implements of war.
Struck with her pointed lance, the teeming earth
Seem’d to produce a new surprising birth,
When, from the glebe, the pledge of conquest sprung—
A tree pale green, with fairest olives hung.
And then, to let her giddy rival learn
What just rewards such boldness was to earn,
Four trials at each corner had their part,
Design’d in miniature, and touch’d with art.
Haemus in one, and Rhodope of Thrace,
Transform’d to mountains, fill’d the foremost place,
Who claim’d the titles of the gods above,
And vainly used the epithets of Jove.
Another show’d where the Pigmaean dame,
Profaning Juno’s venerable name,
Turn’d to an airy crane, descends from far,
And with her pygmy subjects wages war.
In a third part, the rage of heaven’s great queen,
Display’d on proud Antigone, was seen,
Who, with presumptuous boldness, dared to vie,
For beauty, with the emperess of the sky.
Ah! what avails her ancient princely race;
Her sire a king, and Troy her native place?
Now, to a noisy stork transform’d, she flies,
And with her whiten’d pinions cleaves the skies:
And in the last remaining part was drawn
Poor Cinyras, that seem’d to weep in stone;
Clasping the temple steps, ne sadly mourn’d
His lovely daughters, now to marble turn’d.
With her own tree the finish’d piece is crown’d
And wreaths of peaceful olive all the work surround.
Arachne drew the famed intrigues of Jove,
Changed to a bull, to gratify his love;
How through the briny tide, all foaming hoar,
Lovely Europa on his back he bore.
The sea seem’d waving, and the trembling maid
Shrunk up her tender feet, as if afraid,
And, looking back on the forsaken strand,
To her companions wafts her distant hand.
Next she design’d Asteria’s fabled rape,
When Jove assumed a soaring eagle’s shape:
And show’d how Leda lay supinely press’d,
While the soft snowy swan sat hovering o’er her breast:
How in a satyr’s form the god beguiled,
When fair Antiope with twins he fill’d:
Then, like Amphitryon, but a real Jove,
In fair Alcmena’s arms he cool’d his love:
In fluid gold to Danae’s heart he came:
Aegina felt him in a lambent flame:
He took Mnemosyne in shepherd’s make
And for Deois was a speckled snake.
She made thee, Neptune, like a wanton steer,
Pacing the meads for love of Arne dear:
Next, like a stream, thy burning flame to slake;
And like a ram, for fair Bisaltis’ sake.
Then Ceres in a steed your vigour tried,
Nor could the mare the yellow goddess hide:
Next, to a fowl transform’d, you won by force
The snake-hair’d mother of the winged horse;
And, in a dolphin’s fishy form, subdued
Melantho sweet, beneath the oozy flood.
All these the maid with lively features drew,
And open’d proper landscapes to the view.
There Phobus, roving like a country swain,
Attunes his jolly pipe along the plain;
For lovely Isso’s sake, in stepherd’s weeds,
O’er pastures green his bleating flock he feeds.
There Bacchus, imaged like the clustering grape,
Melting, bedrops Erigone’s fair lap:
And there old Saturn, stung with youthful heat,
Form’d like a stallion, rushes to the feat.
Fresh flowers, which twists of ivy intertwine,
Mingling a running foliage, close the neat design.
This the bright goddess, passionately moved,
With envy saw, yet inwardly approved.
The scene of heavenly guilt with haste she tore,
Nor longer the affront with patience bore:
A boxen shuttle in her hand she took,
And more than once Arachne’s forehead struck.
The unhappy maid, impatient of the wrong,
Down from a beam her injured person hung;
When Pallas, pitying her wretched state,
At once prevented and pronounced her fate:
“Live; but depend, vile wretch,” the goddess cried,
“Doom’d in suspense for ever to be tied;
That all your race, to utmost date of time,
May feel the vengeance, and detest the crime.”
Then, going off, she sprinkled her with juice,
Which leaves of baneful aconite produced.
Touch’d with the pois’nous drug, her flowing hair
Fell to the ground, and left her temples bare;
Her usual features vanish’d from their place
Her body lessen’d all, but most her face:
Her slender fingers, hanging on each side,
With many joints, the use of legs supplied;
A spider’s bag the rest, from which she gives
A thread, and still by constant weaving lives.