The Birth of Bacchus

Of all the Olympian deities at the head of the Classical Pantheon, one was something of an enigma among the rest. Dionysus, or Bacchus as the Romans knew him, had a curious pedigree. His mother was no grand spirit of the forest nor thundering deity, but an otherwise ordinary mortal woman. His father, on the other hand, was none other than Zeus the Thunderer, King of the Gods and son of the Titan Kronos. From this peculiar union came a peculiar child, brought forth in a most peculiar birth...

Jupiter and Semele
Painting by Sebastiano Ricci

Daughter of Cadmus, founder of the great city of Thebes and sower of the Dragon's Teeth, and Harmonia his wife, Semele lived a relatively ordinary life in the Boeotian countryside as a priestess of Zeus. That was, although, until the day came when after a sacrifice, she swam in the river Asopus. Far overhead, an eagle soared. Regal though the imperial bird was, its feathered form within concealed the true Emperor of the Sky. For no eagle it was in truth, but Zeus himself, come to collect his offering. But the eyes of an eagle are keen indeed, and from on high the Thunderer spotted the one from whom this offering had come. Under the gentle, glassy surface of the Asopus his baleful gaze pierced, and there his priestess he saw. Not for the first time nor the last did the Son of Kronos become ensnared by a mortal woman. Down to the earthly plain the thunderous monarch descended, and so began the affair that would spell her doom. No mortal yet had resisted the charms of Zeus, and hapless Semele would not be the first. The deed done, back to Olympus he retreated, assured of secrecy. Or so he thought.

Hera alone, Queen of the gods, ever watchful of the infidelities of her husband, scoured the earthly plain. Her feud with Semele's kin ran deep, for she "joy'd to see the race of Cadmus bleed; for still she kept Europa in her mind". A nameless spy in her league brought word to her that Semele, daughter of Cadmus was rich with the seed of a god, and carried in her womb a future god. Her paranoia and suspicions flared, and to terrible fury was she roused. "Are my reproaches of so small a force? 'Tis time I then pursue another course: It is decreed the guilty wretch shall die, if I'm indeed the mistress of the Sky". In the Classical World, the dark powers had no fury like a Hera scorned, and she concocted a vile stratagem in her vengeful mind, and vowed that Semele would die, and her slayer would be none other than Zeus himself.


In a golden cloud she descended to the Earth, coming to the gates of Semele's lodge. But no divine form did she take, but the wrinkled visage of Beroe, Semele's nurse. "In her trembling gait she totters on, and learns to tattle in the nurse's tone". Greeting oblivious Semele as only the special bond between nurse and child can, she was welcomed warmly into the daughter's house. Veiling her rage, Hera beguiled Semele with softly spoken stories and fables of old. Semele confided in her nurse the affair, and that she indeed bore the seed of Jove. If her veins of ichor thundered with anger, the goddess buried it deep within. She sowed doubt in Semele's mind, and asked how she could know that this man was indeed the Lord of Olympus. To test the veracity of her suspicion, the nurse proposed a simple test:


                  " Bid him, when next he courts the rites of your affection,
                    Descend triumphant from th' ethereal sky,
                    In all the pomp of his divinity,
                    Encompass'd round by those celestial charms... "
                         - HERA'S RUSE

The Birth of Bacchus
Painting by Nicolas Poussin

The unwary girl, snared on Hera's trap, was racked with doubt at what she said. Who was in truth the father of her as yet unborn child? She had to know, and would not rest until she knew. So when Zeus the father of gods and men came once more to the maiden's fold, Semele confronted him, though hid her ruse. She asked the Son of Kronos if she could have but one thing. Zeus replied "Whate'er you ask, may Styx confirm my voice, choose what you will, and you shall have your choice". Powerful indeed are the winds of Fate, for though mighty indeed was the ruler of Olympus, even he to Fate must bow, and to renege on a promise would be to overturn the cosmos in fire. He dare not refuse her request now. "Then", said Semele, "when next you seek my arms, may you descend in those celestial charms...". Zeus immediately felt a pang of dread, for no mortal could bear to look upon a god in his full glory, too fiery to behold to mortal eyes. He longed to defeat her call, but he had given his word and dare not refuse.

Bacchus Enthroned
Painting by Rubens

So resigned to his beloved's fate, Zeus the Thunderer rose to Olympus. "To keep his promise he ascends, and shrouds his awful brow in whirlwinds and in clouds; whilst all around, in terrible array, his thunders rattle, and his light'nings play". The Son of Kronos to him summoned all ethereal powers of the Heavens, the very essence of a god, the powers which wove the Universe together, the power to rend it asunder, the power to level mountains and the power to induce love and hate, the power to shatter pride and citadel alike, the power to melt the Earth and freeze the Sea, the power to give rise to live and the power to obliterate it all. To him now he called these things, there to show the true power of no mere god, but the god of gods himself. Worked up to holy fire and divine conflagration, radiating with power, "the illustrious god, descending from his height, came rushing on her in a storm of light". As the mightiest tidal wave summoned from Poseidon's depths crashes upon the lowliest shell upon the beach, the power of Zeus fell upon mortal Semele now. To feeble her frame, to weak her sight, even with eyes closed, in face of ageless omnipotence and thunder's fury, amidst all the wonders she desired Semele was consumed, her mortal form blasted asunder as Hera knew it would be. So her vile schemes bore the accursed fruit, for her rival had been undone by the adulterer himself.

Torn with grief, a tear dropped from the eye of Zeus, until through saddened sight he saw one ray of hope. A child, where once Semele stood, lonely and alive amid the destruction screaming lay. Spared his poor mother's fate, for within his veins flowed the life force of the father, Bacchus drew his first breath. Yet the boy was not yet fully formed. Nine cycles of the moon had not yet come to pass since his conception:


                 " But, to preserve his offspring from the tomb,
                   Jove took him smoking from the blasted womb:
                   and, of on ancient tales we may rely,
                   Inclos'd th' abortive infant in his thigh... "
                         - ZEUS TAKES THE INFANT BACCHUS


So the Thunderer took his son under his alas omnipotent wing. Months passed and Zeus felt a pain in his leg. Knowing the time had come, to the land of the Niseans he came, and from the thigh of Zeus was Bacchus born again, complete at last. To the care of their people the Thunderer placed the babe, where in peace and serenity he would be raised nurtured on Nisean milk. But the adventures of Bacchus had all but begun, and the rage of Hera was far from quenched...

United Kingdom

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses: A New Verse Translation (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

United States

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

The Great Bear

To the curious and logical human mind, all things must have reason, some purpose and indeed some explanation for existence. It is the inquisitive nature of man to seek the answers to these. Where Science fails, Mythology steps in to take up the slack. Few things were, are, and will continue to be more mysterious than the very stars themselves...

Zeus Disguided and Callisto
Painting by François Boucher

When one day the World was settled upon its course, wide around its celestial dome trod Zeus the Thunderer, Lord of the Sky and god of gods. Across the Earth far below he raked his omniscient eyes, across mountains tall, oceans deep and plains vast. Over the fair, unspoiled meadows of Arcadia he oft enjoyed to cast his gaze, for there was no more idyllic land in all Greece. Just then, in the shade of some Arcadian grove, the Son of Kronos saw her, and he was afire. A nymph, reclining upon a tree, though no ordinary spirit of the forest. Simply clad, dressed for the hunt, hair tied, quiver slung and spear ready. Daughter of accursed Lycaon, her name was Callisto, and she was a loyal and chaste follower of Diana, the lady of the hunt and goddess of the moon.

The Sun far above the mortal plain waxed strong now, burning heat pounding Arcadian fields.  The young nymph had been sent panting to the grove, and flung herself now upon the cool grass. Far above, Zeus spied 'the charming huntress unprepar'd, stretch'd on the verdant turf, without a guard'. Wary of Hera's prying gaze, Zeus cast an anxious glance to and fro before his move he made.
Sensing that this one would no easy catch be, his form he shifted. King of all gods no more, he took the shape of the lady Diana herself, softening his regal features and relaxing his dread visage. In the huntress' voice he spoke "How fares my girl? How went the morning chase?" to whom chaste Callisto replied "All hail, bright deity, whom I prefer to Zeus himself". Closer by far was the Thunderer than she thought, to her soon to come regret. With warm words and embrace Zeus worked his charm until the form of Diana could no longer hold the god of all gods, and the truth at last was bared. But when has a mortal ever had the power, or the will to resist the master of the Heavens? "Possess'd at last of what his heart desir'd, Back to his Heav'ns, th' exulting God retir'd". Fair Callisto, poor Callisto, rising from the grass that failed as her respite, with cast down eyes awash with shame as much as tears, flew from the guilty place, almost leaving her bow behind, such her haste.

Diana and Callisto unveiled
Painting by Titian

But now Diana, the fiercely virgin goddess, returned to the glade, close in tow her hunter's train. The oblivious goddess called to Callisto, who when she saw her mistress, quaked with fear. Suspecting some other fraud, some deception of the flesh, she trod carefully, flushed in her face. Terror cursing her every step, she joined the parade, her defilement to all others yet concealed.

Nine months in the world of men passed, until a warm day once more came to pass. Diana wiped the sweat from her heavenly brow, and commanded her maids to join her in the bathe, the sentinel careful to see that no prying eye might look upon them in their modesty. All maids comply, all joyful but one. For when they as one cast their tunics aside, the plight of Callisto was revealed, her form swollen with child. The eyes of Diana flashed dangerously. Wrath burned through her veins, and in that moment, Tartarus had no fury more terrible than hers. "Begone!" the goddes cried with outrage, "Begone! nor dare the hallow'd stream to strain". Tears streaming from her eyes, writhing with injustice, Callisto fled for her life, forever banished from Diana's presence.

Far above Hera, Queen of the gods, heard the commotion, and the nymph's cries. Long had she bided her time, awaiting the moment when she might punish her husband for his infidelities, and her rage she now directed upon the nymph with whom he had lain. To fire her more, the pains of labour struck Callisto now, as the fruit of Zeus' advance was born. A flash of lightning and Hera's wrath was vented upon the nymph. Sensing some dark craft, Callisto raised her hands in mercy, but before her eyes, her arms grew thick and shaggy with hair, her nails warped and stretched into evil claws:


               'Her hands bear half her weight, and turn to paws;
                her lips that once cou'd tempt a god,
                begin to grow distorted in an ugly grin .
                And, lest the supplicating brute might reach
                The ears of Jove, she was depriv'd of speech:
                Her surly voice thro' a hoarse passage came
                In savage sounds...'
                   - CALLISTO CURSED


Her form twisted to that of a towering and ferocious bear, but her mind remaining, she begged of Zeus for aid, desperate now, but all that came forth was an echoing roar that caused birds to flee the canopies in fear. How such fear flew within her now, with such dread she though of roaming the meadows she once called her own, with blinding terror from her own hounds she fled, thinking to avoid poor Actaeon's fate. How she felt for her father Lycaon now, their forms both horribly mutated now, one by Zeus, one by the deeds of Zeus.

Fifteen long summers passed on the earthly plain, and the son of Callisto was growing into a mighty boy. Like his mother before him he was skilled at the hunt, and from her he had taken fine reflexes and a deadly aim. Conqueror of the plains vast and mountains high, to the depths of the forest he stalked in search of prey. By chance he came across his mother where she lay, broken hearted and overflowing with sorrow. One eyelid flickered, and she caught sight of the hunter. Fondly she gazed, 'she knew her son, and kept him in her sight'. She moved to approach, eager to embrace the boy she long thought lost. But a cruel hand had Hera dealt, for only fright rippled through the boy, as a rampaging bear he saw toward him bound. He nocked an arrow on his bow and pulled it tight, aiming at his own mother's heart...

But it was then that Zeus the Thunderer, hidden from Callisto for so many years by Hera, saw at last the scene below. Fifteen years of guilt and pity boiled to their head, and anger at Hera's callous spite. The string of the bow strained, and the boy's grip began to loose. A lone tear welled in the eye of the bear. But Zeus forbade this crime, and with all godly haste he flashed down to the earth, taking both mother and son into his grasp. Looking to his own domain, the son of Kronos fixed them both in the vault of the sky to watch forever over the cosmos, forever united side by side. The mother, the Great Bear, came over time to be called by the Latin race Ursa Major, the son Ursa Minor, and still today can both be seen clearly in the night sky. But Hera looked above too, and saw her rival glowing among the stars, and burned with rage anew. To Oceanus, the Titan of the seas, she turned. Oceanus welcomed the Queen of the gods, and begged of her the reason for her unusual visit. Hera commanded Oceanus to never grant Callisto or her kin the simple pleasure of water, that they might never meet the surface of his domain. That is why Ursa Major and Ursa Minor never sink below the horizon...

Ursa Major - The Great Bear

United Kingdom

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses: A New Verse Translation (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

United States

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

The Trident and the Spear

Every city which rises to greatness does so from humble beginnings. So high can a nation rise that so mythic can her origins seem. Every great thing, be it a nation, a person, even an idea, has to start somewhere. To our ancestors of old, greatness was a sure sign of favour from on high. For the hand of a god must surely have been at work when one of the most influential cities in human history, for better or worse, was born.

Athena
2nd century AD Roman bust  from Velletri

The Olympians had fought a terrible fight for mastery of the Cosmos. Their forefathers and creators of the Universe, the Titans had not yielded their divine grip easily. After so great a struggle, the harmony of the World was worth more than anything to the gods, even to Zeus the Thunderer, King of the gods and Lord of the Sky. Now fidelity was one thing that Zeus the Thunderer knew not, and many a hero of the ancient world owed his existence to the philandering adventures of the god of gods. It was little surprise therefore, when Zeus undertook a clandestine affair with the beautiful Titaness Metis. However, when the Fates prophesied that the child of Metis would be mightier in spirit and wiser in understanding than its father, Zeus the father of gods and men was convulsed with fear. Long ago, his father Kronos had heard similar words, with dire consequences. The Heavens had groaned under the Titanomachy, and could ill afford so ruinous a war for a second time. So Zeus the Thunderer decided on a little evil for a greater good. Weaving his divine powers of transfiguration, the shape of Metis he shifted to that of a common fly, and the god swallowed her whole, so that she may never give birth to this legendary child.

Time passed, but troubles did not for the Lord of Olympus. As the days grew late, a terrible pain struck the god inside. What began as an ache inside his royal head, soon swelled to a pounding agony that would not die. Time soon came when even the Thunder himself, conqueror of Typhon and Heaven could bear the torment no more, and summoned to his side Hephaestus, the god of the forge and weaver of fire. "Take up thy hammer and rend asunder this head that pains me so, lest this torture afflict me for all the ages to come", said Zeus. The lame god of the smith stood dumbstruck by this command - split open the head of Zeus? But the father of gods and men was inexorable, and irresistible. So Hephaestus took up his hammer and tongs, and with a mighty strike, he breached the Divine Crown. A roar of thunder and a flash of light rolled over the skies. Then, in a blur of speed an apparition appeared. From the fissures in the skull of Zeus there leapt a figure, strongly built yet distinctly feminine, agile yet fully armed, wise yet ready for war, a new goddess entered the cosmos. Athena, goddess of wisdom, mistress of stratagem, lady of the spear and patron of heroes.

Around this time, far below on the mortal plain, the tribes of Attica came together under their King, Cecrops. Born of Mother Earth herself, Cecrops taught the Atticans the still young arts of reading and writing, of literature, of burial and brought the institution of marriage to the tribesmen. Civilisation as we know it, was being born. Soon, however, the simple villages of Attica groaned under the advance of the people, and a new home was needed. Under the leadership of their vibrant King, the Atticans set off through the harsh landscape of Attica, where open plains give way to beaten rock. After a time they came to a place in the West, largely flat yet punctuated by towering pinnacles of rock. The sea lay yonder, yet wise Cecrops knew that to build their new city on the shore itself was too dangerous in an era of rampant piracy on the high seas. Away from the shore then, yet near enough for trade, the people set foot upon a mount with a commanding position over the plain and the sea. Here would be founded their new city, and grandiose would it be. But every new city needed a patron god, but who?

Poseidon
The Artemision Bronze

Word reached Olympus of the gathering under Cecrops upon the Mount. Just then,  the Fates declared that the city that would be founded upon that place would rise to a greatness rivalling the best of all Greece. Glory and honour would walk hand in hand to whomsoever should become her patron. A frenzy gripped Mount Olympus, and the all the divine array wondered. Two among them immediately took the floor. Athena, ever ready with sharpened word and thought, leapt to her newborn feet. But Poseidon, god of the sea, shaker of the earth and lord of horses, bowed to few. Even Zeus himself, King of all gods kept a close eye on his ambitious younger brother, for most vexed was Poseidon when he lost the Heavens in the division of the cosmos. Torn between loyalty to his brother, however unruly, and care for his daughter, despite the danger she posed as his successor, Zeus decreed that the people should decide the patron of their city. Immediately, the two deities spirited down from Olympus and made landfall upon the mountain. With a blinding flash and a roar of thunder, the people cowered at the sight of the divine array. Fearful lest they choose one over the other, the people knew not what to do. Cecrops their King, however, decided. Turning to his gods, he declared that the patronage of the new city would belong to the one who presented the greatest gift to it. Poseidon and Athena, uncle and niece, eyed each other, and readied their contest.

The Sea of Olives, Delphi
Photograph taken by the author

Both god and goddess, stood aside the towering pinnacles of the Acropolis, poised for the prize of glory. Poseidon, shaker of the Earth, took the first move. Raising his mighty Trident high into the air, with a rush of godly strength he plunged the three blades into the mountain side. A deafening rumble rippled across the Earth, and the people were thrown to the ground, terrified. There, where the central prong penetrated the summit (a place today commemorated by the Erechtheion), the wounded rock spat forth a spring of water thick with brine. The Emperor of all Oceans granted to the people the gift of the sea itself, and the assurance that one day they would master it. A fabulous gift indeed. Next the virgin goddess stepped forth. The eyes of Athena looked into the souls of all mortals present, and she senses their hopes and fears. Confident, and unyielding, the daughter of Zeus took up her spear and flung it into the mount. The people watched, entranced, for before their eyes the lance began to shift. The wooden shaft lengthened and broadened, from the blade branches sprang forth, rich with the bounty of its dark fruit. To the people Athena gave the gift of the humble olive tree. Poseidon looked on, bemused and anxious.

Athens at her height
Painting by Leo von Klenze

The primordial Athenians looked on the lowly sprig with wonder and amazement, as the goddess instilled some of her divine wisdom in their minds. Cecrops beckoned his people round to cast their vote. Poseidon's gift was mighty indeed, as was his promise. Mastery of the Ocean? 'Tis the dream of empires! A great destiny had been given to them. But that all looked a long way off to the primitive people, as they looked to and fro, and saw naught but barren rock. One citizen splashed some of the water over his face, and recoiled at its salty taste. The people turned to the sapling, Athena's gift. One fellow took a blackened grape from its boughs, and crushed it in his hands, and oil splashed across his palm. Into his mouth he tossed the olive and pleasing was its taste. Seeing the thick and robust trunk too, he saw the greatness of Athena's gift. Poseidon had given them a taste of great nations, but Athena had given them a source of food, of wood and oil, and something they could trade with others. The people sank to their knees with joy, and hurled themselves at the foot of Athena, daughter of Zeus and maiden of Olympus. Poseidon, god of the seas, was infuriated, but his niece had won the day. Cecrops declared Athena the one true patron of their new city. He declared that this place, the Acropolis, would ever be sacred to her. He declared too, that in her honour the city would be named. To the roar of approval from the first Athenians, he named the city. Athens, the glory of Athena...



United Kingdom

The Library of Mythology:
Library of Mythology
(A vast collection of the myths of old Greece, written in ancient times, and a great intro)

United States

The Library of Mythology:
Library of Mythology
(A vast collection of the myths of old Greece, written in ancient times, and a great intro)

The Sword of Damocles

Across the stride of human history, many things do not change. Man has always had to eat, to breathe, has always known pride, humility, envy, joy and grief and has always grumbled about taxes. Some things, however, do change. Sometimes even words.

Syracuse
Photograph taken by the author

Take the word 'tyrant' for example, a label of condemnation frequently deployed in the world of today. Originally, however, the word 'tyrant' held no negative connotations at all. The Greek word τύραννος (tyrannos) simply means 'lord of a city'. The most common usage of 'tyrant' in antiquity referred to a ruler of a city state who had come to power unconventionally, neither through inheritance nor election, and does not refer to character. It was a completely neutral word, and 'tyranny' was a relatively common system of government in the world of Classical Greece, especially in Greek colonies. No Greek colony was so famous for tyranny than the great city of Syracuse, arguably the most prestigious and powerful colony of old Greece. Throughout much of their five centuries of independence, the Syracusans rejected democracy in favour of tyranny, and under the Tyrants, Syracuse became a great power in the central Mediterranean, bordered to the West by the maritime superpower of Carthage, and to the East by the growing power of Rome. High were her walls, mighty her navy and rich her coffers. It was said that the majesty of the Syracusan court rivalled that of any Kingdom, the wealth of her treasury that of any Eastern despot. The Tyrants were great patrons of the arts and sciences, and indeed one of Syracuse' citizens was none other than Archimedes himself. Strong authoritarians, the Tyrants for five hundred years kept foreign powers at bay, and when at last the great city fell to the Romans in 212 BC, it did so only after one of the most legendary sieges in history. Here is the story of a Syracusan Tyrant, and a flatterer who longed for power.

Long ago, when the power of Syracuse waxed strongest, and her treasuries earned the envy of the world,  their ruled over the city a man who had been a student of Plato himself. Dionysius II of Syracuse was a man of philosophical intent, yet alas weary with the apparent failure of men to live up to this ideal. Ever in the shadow of his father, who had warred down Carthage and raised his city to the height of its glory, he groaned under the weight of the greatest tyrant of all - expectation. For fear of any treacherous hand felling him by blade or poison, young Dionysius was restricted as a boy to the Syracusan Acropolis, forbidden from ever leaving, lest evil men seek to take advantage of him. The close instruction of Plato, most learned of men alive in the world, not merely then, but perhaps of all time, rigorously conditioned the mind of the boy. With Dionysius, it seemed, Plato's dream may come true at last, that the world would be ruled by the finest governmental system of them all - the philosopher king. An absolute ruler, firmly endowed with virtues and a solid grasp of ethics, immune to flattery and an inspiration to his people.

Down below in the city by the waterfront, a man of quite different spirit and birth had grown up. Damocles was a man who lived ever in want, and knew only envy. Where Dionysius held virtue, Damocles held vice; ambition tempered with greed, a most dangerous combination. From a young age he had set his sights high. Not on wealth, nor military prowess, but on the tyranny itself, and worked his life towards his treacherous goal. Through connections, flattery and other corrupt endeavours, he was enrolled as courtier to the tyrant himself. Triumph, it seemed, loomed close now.

Damocles stepped into the audience chamber of the royal palace, and stood breathless, robbed of words by

the awesome spectacle that greeted his eyes. A traveller of distant lands might enter this grand chamber and believe inside that he had crossed the threshold of Heaven itself. Lavish decoration abounded, in the gold that gilded the walls and ceiling, the marble columns and triumphant statues, silken damask and priceless stones from all corners of the Syracusan trade empire. Never in his life had Damocles truly believed all he had heard of this place, that it really was true. Laughter abounded, banquets prevailed and merriment thrived. But there at the head of it all, seated in resplendent glory, was Dionysius himself, neither smiling nor frowning, a stoic figure in a sea of riches. Damocles rejoiced, though confused in his foolish mind as to why the tyrant rejoiced not too at his merry lot in life.

One day, when the tyrant was not at business, Damocles approached his master. Weaving his sycophancy as he had many a time before, but never upon so mighty a target, he eulogised the tyrant. "Fortunate art thou my tyrant, in the majesty of thy rule, the bounty of thy riches, the magnificence of thy palace and all other things, for never hath there been a man more blessed by Heaven". Dionysius, well educated and philosphically conditioned, despaired of the naive ignorance of the man before him. Thus did the tyrant vow to teach the man a valuable lesson:


                           " So, Damocles, since this life delights you,
                             do you wish to taste it yourself and make trial of my fortune? "
                                   - THE OFFER OF DIONYSIUS


Difficult it was, to determine who stood more shocked, Damocles himself or the tyrant's advisers who looked on. The tyrant's retinue protested, but Dionysius bade them stay their words. Damocles, faced more openly than ever he wished with that which he sought, was overcome with joy and fervour. Replying immediately that he did wish this, Dionysius at once gave command that the royal power be bestowed upon Damocles, that he be laid upon the golden throne, set upon the finest woven rug embroidered with the feats of great heroes and kings of the past. He ordered the fineries of silver and gold be laid out before the new tyrant, hither and thither, to frame the new ruler. He ordered him clad in robes of the most decadent crimson, and the sceptre of rule placed in his hand. He ordered chosen courtiers to dote upon him and pander to his every whim, to place a garland upon his head and await with perfumes and unguents. He ordered the kitchens bring forth their finest produce and most envied dishes. The last command of Dionysius seemed a peculiar one, he ordered a shimmering sword be fastened to the glittering ceiling, and be held firm not with rope nor cord robust, but by a single horse hair, and that the blade's point should be poised over the neck of the one who sits upon the throne.  It was then that Dionysius stepped back, and the new tyrant was seated upon the Syracusan throne.

The Sword of Damocles
Painting by Richard Westall

Thus was Damocles triumphant at last, as well he thought. Bathed in all the riches of which he had dreamed there seemed no limit to his power or pleasure. He admired the finery in which he was clad. His eyes burned with the fulfilled ambitions of a vice ridden man. His gluttony arose when he cast a glance at the magnificent plates of gold. His pride welled when he saw his entourage, bowing before him. His greed conquered the most towering of pinnacles when he saw the gold, silver and gemstones overflowing from the coffers of the world. "Fortunate am I", he softly said. But then the sycophant caught a glimpse of a glint of metal in the corner of his greedy eye. Intrigued, he cast his newly royal gaze to the Heavens. With a gasp he saw the sharp, silver point hanging over his neck. Further up, there it was, the pommel held fast, or not so fast, by a single hair from the tail of a horse. The sword swayed gently in the rafters, silent as the grave. It was then that Damocles looked not at the abundance of his possessions. He looked not at the oils and unguents nor at the bowing courtiers. Neither did he look at the burnished gold nor shining silver. The woven rug might have been the coarsest hemp now, the crimson robes tattered cloth. The wreath slipped from his head.

Dionysius approached. "You see now the folly of your wish? See now the thread upon which a ruler's life hangs at every moment? The one who rules in an imperfect world has everything to lose, and those around him, everything to gain. The riches of the world are naught compared to the danger a ruler at all times is faced with, only with virtue may we stay fate's blade. Do you still consider yourself a fortunate man, Damocles?"

"No!", wailed Damocles, "I beg you, my tyrant, grant me leave, take back this burden, for I no longer wish to be fortunate!". Thus Dionysius relieved the changed man of his terror, and released him from the fear of fate. To Dionysius the sceptre was returned, to Damocles relief. So Damocles learned that day that power, even absolute, is not the rosy bliss it seems...


United Kingdom

The Tusculan Disputations (Loeb Classical Library):
Philosophical Treatises: Tusculan Disputations v. 18 (Loeb Classical Library)
(The philosophical work which contains the story of the sword of Damocles, the version with the original Latin and English side by side)

The Tusculan Disputations (Digireads):
Tusculan Disputations
(The philosophical work which contains the story of the sword of Damocles, the cheap and cheerful version!)

United States

The Tusculan Disputations (Loeb Classical Library):
Tusculan Disputations (Loeb Classical Library) (v. 18)
(The philosophical work which contains the story of the sword of Damocles, the version with the original Latin and English side by side)

The Tusculan Disputations (Forgotten Books):
The Tusculan Disputations of Cicero (Classic Reprint)
(The philosophical work which contains the story of the sword of Damocles, the cheap and cheerful version!)

Hyacinthus

Envy is a terrible thing. It tears friendships asunder, levels cities and topples nations. An emotion the gods of the pagan world were no less susceptible to than their human subjects. Mortality was never a barrier to jealously, as the curse to never be content with one's lot in life afflicted the Olympians as much as men. Sometime the gods even envied their own worshippers. Here is the story of one.

Zephryus the West Wind
Painting by William-Adolphe Bouguereau

Long ago, before the high days of ancient Greece, in the days before even Agamemnon the High King, the city state of Sparta was in its infancy. Long before the days when Spartans reigned inexorable on land, the richly destined city was little more than a village, deep in the valley of the Eurotas in the shadow of Mount Taygetus. King Amyclas ruled over a modest realm of simple folk, pious and rustic. One day a boy was born to the royal house of Sparta, Prince Hyacinthus was his name. Joy erupted in verdant Sparta, and Spartans far and wide flocked to catch a glimpse of the handsome Prince. Spartan mothers were swift to sing the praises of the boy's beauty, Spartan fathers of the strength in his arms. Not even the Olympians were blind to the event, all celebrating the birth of such a fine heir, and the great grandson of Zeus the Thunderer himself. The spirits of the cosmos were no less taken, and one above others, Zephryus the lord of the West Winds. In the days of the Classical World, it was the societal practice for an older man to take a young boy under his wing, and teach him the ways of the world, free from the constraints and biases of the boy's family. No less so at Sparta, renowned for this custom. The West Wind took a shine to the boy, and moved to greet the Prince.

Apollo & Hyacinthus
Painting by Jean Broc

But it was the golden rays of the Sun which smiled most fondly upon the Prince. Apollo the keen eyed archer, father of the arts, was smitten at once with the Spartan Prince, and moved without delay. "Phoebus Apollo for thee too, Hyacinth, design'd a place among the Gods, had Fate been kind...". In Hyacinthus Apollo 'plac'd his Heav'n, and fix'd his joy". The Sun shone brighter than ever before on the golden valley of the Eurotas, and the Spartans bathed in warmth. The god's hands forgot the string of the bow and chords of the harp, as Apollo's mind was turned to the Spartan Prince. All the while the West Wind blew a gentle breeze, Zephryus pursuing young Hyacinthus, eager to take the boy under his celestial wing. But young Hyacinthus, awed by the light, turned to Apollo of the golden mount. Phoebus Apollo was overwhelmed with joy, delight that his should be the fate of the Spartan Prince. Meanwhile Zephryus lurked in despair and grief, soon to turn to envy and wrath.


Sunlight flooded Eurotas, as Apollo and Hyacinthus ran in the ancient plains. The wisdom of a god Hyacinthus gained from Apollo, the innocence of youth Apollo from Hyacinthus. Then came a day, a day of days, when Hyacinthus was old enough to learn the ways of a man. To the young Prince Apollo yearned to teach the feats of the martial body and of athletic glory. To the noble sport of the discus the sun god turned, a majestic sport for a Spartan boy, to build good strength and competitive spirit. Hyacinthus marvelled at the golden disc, as though the Sun obeyed Phoebus in his hand. Apollo bade the boy watch him well, and took a deep breath and poised for the throw. Divine sinews groaned, and godly muscles unfurled for the feat. With a cry,

 " A well-pos'd disk first hasty Phoebus threw,
   It cleft the air, and whistled as it flew;
   It reach'd the mark,a  most surpising length;
   Which spoke an equal share of art, and strength.
   Scarce was it fall'n, when with too eager hand
   Young Hyacinthus ran to snatch it from the sand... "
          - APOLLO'S DEADLY THROW

The Death of Hyacinthus
Painting by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo

Awed by the supernatural throw, swift footed Hyacinthus ran in pursuit, eager to fetch the discus for his master. To the young Prince the sun god called, but in vain, for Hyacinthus alas could not be swian. Zephryus the Western Wind, his jealousy raw, took a deep breath and blasted raw. The wind then blew the discus from the straight and true, and Apollo looked on, helpless as the mighty disk, flew now a weapon of death. The metallic star slammed into Hyacinthus' head, and with a scream of final innocence, the boy fell to the land, never to rise again. The West Wind smiled in spiteful malice. Apollo shouted in disbelief, and ran over to the dying youth. The coldness spread through the Spartan Prince, and the light left his eyes, as Phoebus Apollo raised his head to the stars and wailed his grief. Taking the nearby herbs of Taygetus, he to the lethal wound vainly applied. "The wound is mortal, and his skill defies". Just as a wilting lily lowers its head, so too now Hyacinthus bowed to Death.

But Apollo would not his Fate accept. "O thou art gone, my boy, Apollo cry'd, defrauded of thy youth in all its pride!". Not now would Hades take his fill, not from so fair a spirit so cruelly snuffed out. "On my tongue thou shalt forever dwell; thy name my lyre shall sound, my verse shall tell". In that moment the sun gods power the young body transfigured. Youthful Prince white in the clutches of Death no more, now a beautiful flower, as yet unnamed, blood from the fatal wound, its petals coloured, mingled with the tears of the god of the Sun. Forever, Apollo decreed, would it bear the boys name. The flower we call Hyacinth today...


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Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses: A New Verse Translation (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

United States

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Cyparissus

The Cypress Tree
Painting by Vincent Van Gogh

Considered the iconic tree of the Mediterranean, the symbol of the rolling hills of Tuscany or the rugged mountains of Greece, the humble cypress tree had a far more potent, and sinister, meaning to the Ancient Romans. Even today, journeying through Italy, you will find many a shadow of a cypress falling across a graveyard, a silent sentinel watching over the darker places of the world. Its characteristic pencil like form is never far away in this land, and rarely absent from the tourist's photograph. But why this mournful association? Why the favoured foliage of the afterlife? It all began with a story nearly two thousand years ago, the story of a young boy who would give the cypress its name, and its story...




Long ago, on the idyllic pastures of the island of Caea, there was bred a mighty stag, its stature and beauty never before known. In majesty and power, all of his kind he excelled. A wonder to behold, to the nymphs of Cartha he was sacred held. Dignity was written in his face, vast were his antlers, enough to grant him ample shade. The horns gilt seemed, as the sun beams danced of their shining points, casting all around in their radiant glow. So brilliantly burnished was his coat, it seemed as though all the precious stones of the world were embedded in every lock. Nature itself seemed to bow before his stride, and soon the fear of the locals was lost, and even strangers would come forth to pat his proffered neck.

But there was a young boy among the Caeans who adored him most. By all accounts an ordinary boy, blessed with no great strength of arm, divine beauty nor unearthly wit, but a heart of gold he hid within. A country boy, he cared nothing for the grand affairs of the world, but cared in abundance for what his eyes could see and ears could hear. An uncommon empathy he held too for all living things, for in the wild he lived, and learned to reside in peace with the creatures, and spirits of the forest. Then one day, came the regal stag, and all was changed:


       " Much was the beast by Caea's youth caress'd,
         But thou, sweet Cyparissus, lov'dst him best:
         By thee, to pastures fresh, he oft was led,
         By thee oft water'd at the fountain's head:
         His horns with garlands, now, by thee were ty'd,
         And, now, thou on his back wou'dst wanton ride;
         Now here, now there wou'dst bound along the plains,
         Ruling his tender mouth with purple reins. "
              - CYPARISSUS AND THE STAG

Cyparissus, Apollo & Hyacinthus
Painting by Alexander Ivanov

Many came before the stag awed by the beauty of its form. Cyparissus came, drawn by the beauty within, for he sensed a grace within, bound with his adoration of nature and al living things. Soon both boy and beast began a friendship such that man and loyal animal only can, like the shepherd and his faithful hound. Many a lazy afternoon could you find them, resting by a pool in the forest glades, retreating from the burning rays of Apollo's sun. Across the far reaching plains the boy and his stag would race, their contest the amusement of the gods high on Olympus. The villagers were puzzled, but delighted for young Cyparissus and his unconventional friendship, sensing the hand of the divine at work.


Then one day, Cyparissus went into the forest hunting, hoping to bring back some prize boar for his family, a spectacular feast indeed. A scorching summer day, the burning arms of the Sun pierced the foliage, and sweat fell from the boy's brow. His faithful companion had bounded joyfully ahead into the brush, bidding the boy on. But, suffering from the heat too, the mighty stag sought refuge in the shade of the bushes, laying his weary limbs across the grass. Suddenly, distracted, the boy heard the snort of a boar close by. Not twice does opportunity strike, not two moments does one wait when hunger strikes. Cyparissus levelled his spear and took his aim, wary of his nearby friend. Bringing back his hunting arm, he launched with all his might, but no! A bead of sweat brought forth from the fiery Sun fell into his eye. A stinging sensation swept his eye, and the boy blinked, and his aim went awry. A blood chilling cry rose to the skies, as Cyparissus rubbed his sore eye. The pain passed, he looked up, excited to find his quarry.

Cyparissus mourns
Painting by Jacopo Vignali

Horror swept through his mortal frame, and cold dread, when he saw no boar thrashing at the foot of the tree. Unknowingly, unwillingly, oblivious, Cyparissus had cast the deadly dart, but his worst nightmare had it transfixed upon its brazen point. There lay the mighty stag, and never a more tragic sight there lay. The hideous truth of his error laid bare, the young boy fell to his knees, tears welled up inside. The stag writhed in pain, blood spattering the forest floor, its cries rending the air. Frantically, Cyparissus tried to staunch the wound, but the hands of a boy are scarce enough to stem the flow of blood that gushed forth that day. Calling out in desperation, the folly dawned upon him, and his heart began to break. At last, the cries grew silent, the body still, and the stag lay motionless, its staring into the wilderness. Cyparissus howled to the skies. He would have taken his own life there and then, had not Phoebus Apollo, lord of the Sun, taken pity on the boy. Had not his burning rays caused the boy's aim to go wide... Cyparissus, determined to feel his guilt for all time, and expiate his crime, asked the god to allow him to mourn for all time. Himself fighting back his tears, Apollo granted his final wish, moved was he. The blood drained from the boy, his legs fused together, and leaves grew where one was his skin, and hard weeping bark underneath. A thin and lanky young boy, so too was the form of the tree which he took.

Apollo looked on in grief, and declared that this was ever after to be present at the ritual of mourning, and the tree was named. Cypress, the tree of mourning. Still today it watches over graves...



United Kingdom

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses: A New Verse Translation (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

United States

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Arachne

It is often falsely believed that our ancestors of the ancient world lived in slavish devotion to their gods, that they prayed daily, sacrificed often and repented frequently, and that the fate of nations lay in the words of Heaven. But like any other culture, there were rebels. Here is the story of one such rebel.

Arachne's admired craft
Fresco by Francesco del Cossa,
Palazzo Schifanoia, Ferrara

There once was a young maiden, skilled in craft. Sacred was her gift, profane her piety. "Low was her birth, and small her native town, she from her art alone obtain'd renown". Dead was her mother, a dyer of Tyrian purple, her father. Content in their small hamlet until Arachne's adolescent years, when the daughter first turned her hand to her immortal craft. Immensely skilled at the loom, the most dazzling displays of weaving were the maiden's forte, and it was not long before her fame began to spread far from her home. Across the plain word spread, over the hills and far through Lydia and beyond her legend grew. From the mortal to the immortal plain her name spread, and oft would the nymphs of the fountains, trees or hills take leave of their hiding places. From the golden rivers the Naiads came, all of them drawn by her legendary art. For the spirits of nature there was little finer that to observe the shapeless wool she wound with fluid motion on the spindle, as the masterpiece took slow but mighty shape. The goddess Minerva, weaver of the gods on high, was woven into every thread, yet scorned was the mistress by the maiden. Never once did Arachne honour the goddess nor reveal the source of her knowledge, neither praising nor cursing, pure and plain silence.

The Spinning Contest
Painting by Diege Velázquez

Upon Arachne Minerva bent her "vengeful mind", angered by the indifference of the maiden toward the gods gion high. "Let us, she cries, but to a trial come, and if she conquers, let her fix my doom". The goddess took the form of a woman bent with age, and came to the house of Arachne. Coming before the prodigal girl, the old woman declared "Young maid attend, nor stubbonly despise the admonitions of the old, and wise; for age, tho' scorn'd, a ripe experience bears". Her experience could lend the girl skill greater still, but only if she petition the gods on high, and pardon her bold presumption that she be greater than the gods. With temper fired Arachne rose, and to the veiled goddess she spoke. She despised the elderly counsel and her blasphemy grew. "If your skilful goddess better knows, let her accept the trial I propose!". "She does", wrathful Minerva replies, "and cloth'd with heavenly light, sprung from her disguise". The nymphs of the plains leapt back in fright, the ladies of hamlet trembled before the awe of divinity. Only the maiden stood unafraid, confident of her earthly, human talents. A brief blush in the cheek she allowed, but swiftly her composure regain'd. Across from each other the board was set, and the looms deployed, both ready to test their skills before the other, and all looked on in apprehension.


At once skilled fingers darted hither and thither across the mantle, human and inhuman, plying their trades as never before. Shining colours lit up the room, finest golds shimmering from the Minervan loom, royal purple from the maiden's mantle, gift of her father. Shades and light were wed on the wool, "as when a show'r transpierc'd with sunny rays, its mighty arch along the heav'n displays". Minerva the glories of the gods on high wove, high on Olympus on lofty thrones. Jupiter the subject, seated proud, and the centre of heaven and the centre of her loom. With awing majesty he all the rest excell'd, but there tood were woven his kin and those of heaven. There too was the hoary lord of the seas, Neptune the son of Saturn, wielding his three pronged trident high, ready to smite the jagged rocks, his steed the hippocampus ready for its master. There herself even, Minerva wove the very image of her own. Blazoning with glory, with glittering arms. With lavishly crested helm and braided hair, shining cuirass and shield resplendent, the image of the goddess stood poised, lance ready at the tilled earth. There the blade struck, and a towering olive blossomed into glorious life. Then, to warn the maiden Arachne,a  rival now, the goddess wove, and wove well. In all the corners four she wove a tale of mortals past, mortals who dared provoke the wrath of gods. In one there was spun Rhodope, King of the warlike Thracians who dared assume the titles of Jupiter, transfigured to a mountain for his pride. In the second corner there lay the image of the venomous Pigmaean dame, who dared profane Juno's holy name, now no more than a feathered crane. To the third Minerva's hands flew, whence the pride of young Antigone grew. Another to scorn the wife of Jove, with her self admired beauty she vyed with the Empress of the Skies. At last to the final corner Minerva flew, and there the image of weeping Cinyras drew. To crown it all at the centre stood, the mighty olive tree woven finer than any mortal could.

Arachne meanwhile chose triumphs of the divine, yet of a somewhat different kind. To the vices of on high she turned, and of the dalliances of Jove she wove. Through the rising surf and roaring tide, Zeus the Thunderer bore Europa upon his stride. Fearful of the ocean deep, up drew the feet of the maid, as though of Poseidon's domain she was afraid. Their too lay Leda a resplendent swan, for whom Jove could be the only one. Appear'd in a shower gold, came the god to Danaë's hold. To Neptune next the maiden turned her hand, casting the hypocrisy of heav'n across the land. Then upon a bursting scene, Arachne wove a valley pristine. Apollo next, roving through the plain, rousing song to banish all pain. Bacchus too could not escape his fate, as ever a slave to the accursed grape.

Minerva's Wrath
Painting by Rubens

All this the bright eyed goddess saw, and grew worried at the outcome of this war. Minerva was moved, great was her anger yet inwardly she approv'd. Magnificent was the maiden's taste, yet greater still Minerva's haste. The scenes she saw of heavenly vices made her wonder, but not before her wrath tore the loom asunder. Upon the terror struck maiden the goddess lunged from great height, retribution for her insubordinate spite. In fear and grief Arachne resolved, to be be of this life absolved. So Minerva watched as Arachne from the beam hung, pity rising as she swung. Calming now, the goddess her regret did announce, though swift was her judgement to pronounce:


     " Live, but depend, vile wretch, the goddess cried, doomed
       suspense forever to be tied; that all your race,
       to utmost date of time, may feel the vengeance, and detest the crime "
              - MINERVA'S CURSE


Turning to leave, Minerva upon the girl a potion poured, and before her eye's was Arachne's new body formed. Not two but eight legs now, the array wondered but knew not how. Her body a spider's now "from which she a thread gives, and still by constant weaving lives".

So came the spider into name, and how their family name 'Arachnid' became...


United Kingdom

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses: A New Verse Translation (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

United States

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Pygmalion's Statue

Mythology is not lacking in tales of punished vice. But so too is it abundant with tales of rewarded virtue. Humility could as readily reward you with joy as Pride could punish you with retribution. This is the story of one such humble man who harboured a dream which came true.

Pygmalion at work in his studio
Painting by Jean Baptiste Regnault

There was once on the isle of Cyprus the seedling of a dangerous idea. In the city of Amathus there lived an accursed crowd, the Propoetides by name. A godless crew, drunk on the riches that the veins of gold in the Earth had bestowed upon them, they soon began to turn away from their gods. Numberless were their heresies, but one graver than all the rest. An array of women, the daughters of Propoetus, dared to deny the existence of the goddess Venus, the lady of desire. To Venus, this was deeply blasphemous. "With just abhorrence, and with wrath purs'd", the goddess was unleashed. But seeing no reason to inflict vengeance on the innocent pastures and cities of her former lands, she bent her anger on the daughters, the sinners themselves. Blasted from their mind was their remaining sense of dignity, honour and shame. Outcast from the people, and shunned by society the Propoetides took to prostitution, the first to do so, and the first to feel the blind eye of fellow men and women, "the first that sold their lewd embraces for gold... unknowing how to blush, and shameless grown."

There was, however, one man in particular who bore witness to their dread crimes. A lonely but noble spirited young man, Pygmalion was his name. A poor sculptor, Pygmalion spent his life crafting the forms of the divine, his chisel hewing perfection out of the coarse stone. While his craft was widely admired, and his skills with marble adored, he lived a life cut off from society. One day in Amathus, Pygmalion caught a glimpse of the apostate Propetides. Rarely entering the city, he was appalled at the heinous debauchery on display that day. Shocked to his very core, he resolved never to have anything further to do with womankind, and abhorred marriage, convinced that there was not one well spirited woman in all the world.

Pygmalion admires his work
Sculpture by Étienne Maurice Falconet 

Wracked with hopeless longing, Pygmalion turned to his one true solace. Taking up his chisel and hammer, he began to hew a new ivory block. Tears came as he struck the matter, the artist carving out some new image of perfection. Working day and night, Pygmalion, fearing idleness lest it remind him of his plight, worked harder and harder, and shards of ivory flew hither and thither across the master's workshop. Scarcely could Nature herself have bettered Pygmalion's craft, so fine were his cuts and smooth the polished surface. Ever pious to the deities on high, the sculptor made sure that the summit of the sculpture was carved finely too, where man could not see but the gods could. "Pleas'd with his idol, he commends, admires, adores; and last, the thing ador'd, desires". At last, Pygmalion set down his chisel and hammer, and stepped back from his masterpiece. So great had been the sculptor's skill, he was taken in by his own art. Stood before him was the image of a perfect maiden, pure and serene, untroubled by vice, unburdened with guilt. At any moment she might have stepped down from her pedestal, so incredibly lifelike was she. Such perfection was there, and such pollution in the real world! With this realisation, Cupid's arrow struck, and Pygmalion could never look at his beloved statue with anything but deep longing.

The day soon came, however, for the feast of Venus on Cypriot shores. A sombre day to which quiet prayers were owed, the day was a chance for all Cypriots to honour the goddess they had once scorned. Gild horned bulls were lead through the streets, slaughtered and by the high altars they bled. Pygmalion, however, shunned the procession and came to the shrine of Venus, and bowed before the image of the goddess.


            " Almighty Gods, if all we mortals want,
              If all we can require, be yours to grant;
              Make this fair statue mine, he wou'd have said,
              But chang'd his words for shame; and only pray'd,
              Give me the likeness of my iv'ry maid... "
                   - PYGMALION'S PRAYER

Galatea born
Painting by Jean Raoux

Terrible was the sound of Pygmalion's grief. Mere silence, as a tear rolled down his grizzled cheek. But high on Olympus' lofty heights, Venus heard his sadness, and her divine heart was moved beyond pity.Hearing his prayer, and knowing the true prayer that lay in Pygmalion's heart, the goddess recognised that there was one in that accursed land who was a true and noble servant of Heaven. The altar flame roared, and the fire rose high, and Pygmalion leapt back, suddenly afraid. Daring to hope, longing perhaps, he dashed back home. There she was still, in harmony, glazed eyes and fixed stare, his beloved statue. So afire was Pygmalion, he ran to embrace the statue. Feeling at first the cold hard ivory he despaired. But swiftly did his despair turn to ecstasy. For at his touch, he felt the ivory soften, saw the whiteness lessen, the cold white lips redden, the coldness warm. The Blessing of Venus passed to the statue, as the goddess's gift was bestowed upon humble Pygmalion. Ivory no more, but living flesh. Stony silence no more, but beating pulse. Frozen stance no more, but animated form. The transformation complete, Pygmalion and his statue stared at each other, robbed of words. Barely a moment of tranquillity passed before each ran to embrace the other, and Venus smiled. Pygmalion, his deepest wish granted, gave the woman a name, Galatea. The two were wed, and scarcely has such devotion been seen among the domains of men. Pygmalion and Galatea had a son, Paphos, and the House of Pygmalion lived a life of joy 'till the end of days.

United Kingdom

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses: A New Verse Translation (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

United States

Penguin Classics
Metamorphoses (Penguin Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)

Oxford World's Classics
Metamorphoses (Oxford World's Classics)
(A version which favours ease of understanding than high poetry)