From him the Calydonians sought relief.
Though valiant Meleagrus was their chief.
The cause, a boar, which ravaged far and near;
Of Cynthia’s wrath the avenging minister.
For Oeneus, with autumnal plenty bless’d,
By gifts to heaven his gratitude express’d;
Cull’d sheafs to Ceres; to Lyaeus wine;
To Pan and Pales offer’d sheep and kine;
And fat of olives to Minerva’s shrine.
Beginning from the rural gods, his hand
Was liberal to the powers of high command:
Each deity in every kind was bless’d,
Till at Diana’s fane the invidious honour ceased.
Wrath touches ev’n the gods: the queen of night,
Fired with disdain, and jealous of her right,
“Unhonour’d though I am, at least,” said she,
“Not unrevenged that impious act shall be.”
Swift as the word, she sped the boar away,
With charge on those devoted fields to prey.
No larger bulls the Egyptian pastures feed,
And none so large Sicilian meadows breed;
His eyeballs glare with fire suffused with blood;
His neck shoots up a thickset thorny wood;
His bristled back a trench impaled appears,
And stands erected, like a field of spears;
Froth fills his chaps, he sends a grunting sound,
And part he churns, and part befoams the ground;
For tusks with Indian elephants he strove,
And Jove’s own thunder from his mouth he drove;
He burns the leaves, the scorching blast invades
The tender corn, and shrivels up the blades;
Or suff’ring not their yellow beards to rear,
He tramples down the spikes, and intercepts the year.
In vain the barns expect their promised load,
Nor barns at home, nor ricks are heap’d abroad
In vain the hinds the thrashing-floor prepare,
And exercise their flails in empty air.
With olives ever green the ground is strew’d,
And grapes ungather’d shed their generous blood.
Amid the fold he rages, nor the sheep
Their shepherds, nor the grooms their bulls can keep.
From fields to walls the frighted rabble run,
Nor think themselves secure, within the town,
Till Meleagrus, and his chosen crew,
Contemn the danger, and the praise pursue.
Fair Leda’s twins (in time to stars decreed)
One fought on foot, one curb’d the fiery steed;
Then issued forth famed Jason after these,
Who mann’d the foremost ship that sail’d the seas,
Then Theseus join’d with bold Pirithous came,
A single concord in a double name;
The Thestian sons, Idas, who swiftly ran,
And Ceneus, once a woman, now a man;
Lynceus, with eagle’s eyes and lion’s heart;
Leucippus, with his never-erring dart;
Acastus, Phileus, Phoenix, Telamon,
Echion, Lelix, and Eurytion;
Achilles’ father, and great Phocus’ son;
Dryas the fierce, and Hippasus the strong;
With twice old Iolas, and Nestor, then but young;
Laertes active, and Ancaeus bold;
Mopsus, the sage, who future things foretold,
And the other seer, yet by his wife unsold;
A thousand others of immortal fame;
Among the rest fair Atalanta came,
Grace of the woods: a diamond buckle bound
Her vest behind, that else had flow’d upon the ground,
And show’d her buskin’d legs; her head was bare,
But for her native ornament of hair,
Which in a simple knot was tied above:
Sweet negligence! unheeded bait of love!
Her sounding quiver on her shoulder tied,
One hand a dart, and one a bow supplied.
Such was her face, as in a nymph display’d
A fair fierce boy, or in a boy betray’d
The blushing beauties of a modest maid.
The Calydonian chief at once the dame
Beheld, at once his heart received the flame,
With heavens averse. “O, happy youth!” he cried,
“For whom thy Fates reserve so fair a bride.”
He sigh’d, and had no leisure more to say;
His honour call’d his eyes another way,
And forced him to pursue the now neglected prey.
There stood a forest on a mountain’s brow,
Which overlook’d the shaded plains below:
No sounding axe presumed those trees to bite;
Coeval with the world, a venerable sight.
The heroes there arrived, some spread around
The toils; some search the footsteps on the ground
Some from the chains the faithful dogs unbound.
Of action eager, and intent in thought,
The chiefs their honourable danger sought:
A valley stood below, the common drain
Of waters from above, and falling rain;
The bottom was a moist and marshy ground,
Whose edges were with bending osiers crown’d:
The knotty bulrush next in order stood,
And all within of reeds a trembling wood.
From hence the boar was roused, and sprung amain,
Like lightning sudden on the warrior train,
Beats down the trees before him, shakes the ground,
The forest echoes to the crackling sound;
Shout the fierce youth, and clamours ring around.
All stood with their protended spears prepared,
With broad steel heads the brandish’d weapons glared.
The beast impetuous, with his tusks, aside
Deals glancing wounds; the fearful dogs divide:
All spend their mouths aloof, but none abide.
Echion threw the first, but miss’d his mark,
And stuck his boar-spear on a maple’s bark.
Then Jason, and his javelin seem’d to take,
But fail’d with over force, and whizz’d above his back.
Mopsus was next, but, ere he threw, address’d
To Phoebus thus: “O patron, help thy priest!
If I adore, and ever have adored,
Thy power divine, thy present aid afford,
That I may reach the beast.” The god allow’d
His prayer, and, smiling, gave him what he could:
He reach’d the savage, but no blood he drew;
Dian unarm’d the javelin as it flew.
This chafed the boar, his nostrils’ flames expire,
And his red eyeballs roll with living fire.
Whirl’d from a sling, or from an engine thrown,
Amid her foes, so flies a mighty stone,
As flew the beast: the left wing put to flight,
The chiefs o’erborne, he rushes on the right.
Empalamos and Pelagon he laid
In dust, and next to death, but for their fellows’ aid
Onesimus fared worse, prepared to fly,
The fatal fang drove deep within his thigh,
And cut the nerves: the nerves no more sustain
The bulk; the bulk, unpropp’d, falls headlong on the plain.
Nestor had fail’d the fall of Troy to see,
But, leaning on his lance, he vaulted on a tree;
Then, gathering up his feet, look’d down with fear,
And thought his monstrous foe was still too near.
Against a stump his tusk the monster grinds;
And in the sharpen’d edge new vigour finds;
Then, trusting to his arms, young Othrys found,
And ranch’d his hips with one continued wound
Now Leda’s twins, the future stars, appear,
White were their habits, white their horses were;
Conspicuous both, and both in act to throw
Their trembling lances brandish’d at the foe:
Nor had they miss’d, but he to thickets fled,
Conceal’d from aiming spears, not pervious to the steed;
But Telamon rush’d in, and happ’d to meet
A rising root, that held his fasten’d feet;
So down he fell, whom, sprawling on the ground,
His brother from the wooden gyves unbound.
Meantime the virgin huntress was not slow
To expel the shaft from her contracted bow;
Beneath his car the fasten’d arrow stood,
And from the wound appear’d the trickling blood.
She blush’d for joy: but Meleagrus raised
His voice with loud applause, and the fair archer praised.
He was the first to see, and first to show
His friends the mark of the successful blow.
“Nor shall thy valour want the praises due,”
He said; a virtuous envy seized the crew;
They shout; the shouting animates their hearts,
And all at once employ their thronging darts;
But, out of order thrown, in air they join,
And multitude makes frustrate the design.
With both his hands, the proud Ancaeus takes
And flourishes his double-biting axe;
Then, forward to his fate, he took a stride
Before the rest, and to his fellows cried:
“Give place, and mark the difference, if you can,
Between a woman warrior and a man.
The boar is doom’d, nor, though Diana lend
Her aid, Diana can her beast defend.”
Thus boasted he; then, stretch’d on tiptoe stood
Secure, to make his promise good;
But the more wary beast prevents the blow,
And upward rips the groin of his audacious foe:
Ancaeus falls; his bowels, from the wound,
Rush out, and clotted blood distains the ground.
Pirithous, no small portion of the war,
Press’d on, and shook his lance; to whom, from far,
Thus Theseus cried: “O stay! my better part,
My more than mistress, of my heart the heart:
The strong may fight aloof: Ancaeus tried
His force too near, and, by presuming, died.”
He said, and, while he spake, his javelin threw;
Hissing in air the unerring weapon flew;
But on an arm of oak, that stood betwixt
The marksman and the mark, his lance he fix’d.
Once more bold Jason threw, but fail’d to wound
The boar, and slew an undeserving hound,
And through the dog the dart was nail’d to ground.
Two spears from Meleager’s hand were sent,
With equal force, but various in the event;
The first was fix’d in earth, the second stood
On the boar’s bristled back, and deeply drank his blood.
Now, while the tortured savage turns around
And flings about his foam, impatient of the wound,
The wound’s great author, close at hand, provokes
His rage, and plies him with redoubled strokes,
Wheels as he wheels, and, with his pointed dart,
Explores the nearest passage to his heart:
Quick, and more quick, he spins in giddy gyres,
Then falls, and in much foam his soul expires.
This act, with shouts heaven-high, the friendly band
Applaud, and strain in theirs the victor’s hand.
Then all approach the slain, with vast surprise
Admire on what a breadth of earth he lies,
And, scarce secure, reach out their spears afar,
And blood their points to prove their partnership of war.
But he, the conquering chief, his foot impress’d
On the strong neck of that destructive beast,
And gazing on the nymph with ardent eyes,
“Accept,” said he, “fair Nonacrine, my prize,
And, though inferior, suffer me to join
My labours, and my part of praise, with thine:”
At this, presents her with the tusky head
And chine, with rising bristles roughly spread.
Glad she received the gift, and seem’d to take
With double pleasure, for the giver’s sake;
The rest were seized with sullen discontent,
And a deep murmur through the squadron went;
All envied, but the Thestian brethren show’d
The least respect, and thus they vent their spleen aloud:
“Lay down those honour’d spoils, nor think to share,
Weak woman as thou art, the prize of war;
Ours is the title, thine a foreign claim,
Since Meleagrus from our lineage came:
Trust not thy beauty, but restore the prize
Which he, besotted on that face and eyes,
Would rend from us.” At this, inflamed with spite,
From her they snatch the gift, from him the giver’s right.
But soon the impatient prince his falchion drew,
And cried, “Ye robbers of another’s due,
Now learn the difference, at your proper cost,
Betwixt true valour and an empty boast.”
At this advanced, and, sudden as the word,
In proud Plexippus’ bosom plunged the sword;
Toxeus amazed, and with amazement slow,
Or to revenge, or ward the coming blow,
Stood doubting, and, while doubting thus he stood,
Received the steel bathed in his brother’s blood.
Pleased with the first, unknown the second, news,
Althaea to the temples pays their dues,
For her son’s conquest, when, at length, appear
Her grisly brethren stretch’d upon the bier:
Pale at the sudden sight, she changed her cheer,
And with her cheer her robes; but hearing tell
The cause, the manner, and by whom they fell,
’Twas grief no more, or grief and rage were one
Within her soul; at last ’twas rage alone;
Which, burning upwards in succession, dries
The tears, that stood considering in her eyes.
There lay a log unlighted on the hearth,
When she was lab’ring in the throes of birth
For the unborn chief; the fatal sisters came,
And raised it up, and toss’d it on the flame;
Then on the rock a scanty measure place
Of vital flax, and turn’d the wheel apace,
And, turning, sung, “To this red brand and thee,
O, newborn babe! we give an equal destiny;”
So vanish’d out of view. The frighted dame
Sprung hasty from her bed, and quench’d the flame.
The log, in secret lock’d, she kept with care,
And that, while thus preserved, preserved her heir.
This brand she now produced, and first she strows
The hearth with heaps of chips, and after blows;
Thrice heaved her hand, and heaved, she thrice repress’d,
The sister and the mother long contest,
Two doubtful titles in one tender breast;
And now her eyes and cheeks with fury glow,
Now pale her cheeks, her eyes with pity flow;
Now low’ring looks presage approaching storms,
And now prevailing love her face reforms:
Resolved, she doubts again; the tears she dried
With burning rage, are by new tears supplied;
And, as a ship, which winds and waves assail,
Now with the current drives, now with the gale,
Both opposite, and neither long prevail.
She feels a double force, by turns obeys
The imperious tempest, and the impetuous seas;
So fares Althaea’s mind; she first relents
With pity, of that pity then repents:
Sister and mother long the scales divide,
But the beam nodded on the sister’s side:
Sometimes she softly sigh’d, then roar’d aloud;
But sighs were stifled in the cries of blood.
The pious impious wretch at length decreed,
To please her brothers’ ghosts, her son should bleed;
And when the funeral flames began to rise,
“Receive,” she said, “a sister’s sacrifice.
A mother’s bowels burn:” high in her hand,
Thus while she spoke, she held the fatal brand,
Then thrice before the kindled pile she bow’d,
And the three furies thrice invoked aloud:
“Come, come, revenging sisters, come and view
A sister paying her dead brothers’ due:
A crime I punish, and a crime commit;
But blood for blood, and death for death, is fit:
Great crimes must be with greater crimes repaid,
And second funerals on the former laid.
Let the whole household in one ruin fall,
And may Diana’s curse o’ertake us all!
Shall Fate to happy Oeneus still allow
One son, while Thestius stands deprived of two?
Better three lost than one unpunish’d go.
Take then, dear ghosts (while yet admitted new
In hell you wait my duty), take your due:
A costly offering on your tomb is laid,
When, with my blood, the price of yours is paid.
“Ah! whither am I hurried? Ah! forgive,
Ye shades, and let your sister’s issue live;
A mother cannot give him death; though he
Deserves it, he deserves it not from me.
“Then shall the unpunish’d wretch insult the slain,
Triumphant live, nor only live, but reign;
While you, thin shades, the sport of winds, are toss’d
O’er dreary plains, or tread the burning coast.
I cannot, cannot bear; ’tis past, ’tis done;
Perish this impious, this detested son;
Perish his sire, and perish I withal,
And let the house’s heir and the hoped kingdom fall.
“Where is the mother fled, her pious love,
And where the pains, with which ten months I strove?
Ah! hadst thou died, my son, in infant years,
Thy little hearse had been bedew’d with tears.
“Thou liv’st by me, to me thy breath resign,
Mine is the merit, the demerit thine;
Thy life, by double title, I require,
Once given at birth, and once preserved from fire:
One murder pay, or add one murder more,
And me to them, who fell by thee, restore.
“I would, but cannot, my son’s image stands
Before my sight, and now their angry hands
My brothers hold, and vengeance these exact,
This pleads compassion, and repents the fact.
“He pleads in vain, and I pronounce his doom,
My brothers, though unjustly, shall o’ercome;
But having paid their injured ghosts their due,
My son requires my death, and mine shall his pursue.”
At this, for the last time, she lifts her hand,
Averts her eyes, and, half unwilling, drops the brand.
The brand, amid the flaming fuel thrown,
Or drew, or seem’d to draw, a dying groan;
The fires themselves but faintly lick’d their prey,
Then loathed their impious food, and would have shrunk away.
Just then the hero cast a doleful cry,
And in those absent flames began to fry;
The blind contagion raged within his veins,
But he with manly patience bore his pains:
He fear’d not fate, but only grieved to die
Without an honest wound, and by a death so dry.
“Happy Ancaeus,” thrice aloud he cried,
“With what becoming fate in arms he died!”
Then call’d his brothers, sisters, sire, around,
And her to whom his nuptial vows were bound,
Perhaps his mother; a long sigh he drew,
And, his voice failing, took his last adieu;
For as the flames augment, and as they stay
At their full height, then languish to decay,
They rise and sink by fits, at last they soar
In one bright blaze, and then descend no more;
Just so his inward heats, at height, impair,
Till the last burning breath shoots out the soul in air.
Now lofty Calydon in ruins lies,
All ages, all degrees, unsluice their eyes:
And heaven and earth resound with murmurs, groans, and cries;
Matrons and maidens beat their breasts, and tear
Their habits, and root up their scatter’d hair;
The wretched father, father now no more,
With sorrow sunk, lies prostrate on the floor,
Deforms his hoary locks with dust obscene,
And curses age, and loathes a life prolong’d with pain;
By steel her stubborn soul his mother freed,
And punish’d on herself her impious deed.
Had I a hundred tongues, a wit so large
As could their hundred offices discharge—
Had Phoebus all his Helicon bestow’d
In all the streams, inspiring all the god,
Those tongues, that wit, those streams, that god in vain
Would offer to describe his sisters’ pain;
They beat their breasts with many a bruising blow,
Till they turn livid, and corrupt the snow;
The corpse they cherish, while the corpse remains,
And exercise and rub, with fruitless pains;
And when to funeral flames ’tis borne away,
They kiss the bed on which the body lay;
And when those funeral flames no longer burn
(The dust composed within a pious urn),
Ev’n in that urn their brother they confess,
And hug it in their arms, and to their bosoms press.
His tomb is raised; then, stretch’d along the ground,
Those living monuments his tomb surround;
Ev’n to his name, inscribed, their tears they pay,
Till tears and kisses wear his name away.
But Cynthia now had all her fury spent,
Not with less ruin than a race content,
Excepting Gorge, perish’d all the seed,
And her whom Heaven for Hercules decreed.
Satiate at last, no longer she pursued
The weeping sisters, but with wings endued
And horny beaks, and sent to flit in air,
Who, yearly, round the tomb in feather’d flocks repair.