Phaenomena

From Zeus let us begin; him never do we men leave unspoken. Filled with Zeus are all the streets, all the gatherings of men; filled too the sea and the harbours; everywhere we all have need of Zeus. For we are also his offspring; and kindly to mankind he gives favourable signs, and rouses the peoples to their work, reminding them of livelihood; he tells when the soil is best for the ox and the mattock, and tells when the seasons are right both to earth the plants and to cast every kind of seed. For he himself fixed the signs firm in the sky, marking out the constellations, and contrived for the year stars that should give the surest signs to men of the seasons, that all things might grow without fail. Therefore him first and last do men ever propitiate. Hail, Father, great marvel, great blessing to mankind, yourself and the elder race. Hail too, you Muses, all most gracious; and for me, who pray to tell of the stars as far as is right, guide all my song aright.

They, the many stars, scattered each in its own place, are drawn through the sky on every day continually for ever; but the axle does not shift even a little, but stays just so, fixed always, and holds the earth balanced on every side in the midst, and wheels the heaven itself around. Two poles bound it off on either hand; but the one is not seen, while the other, opposite, from the north rises high above the ocean. About it, on either side, two Bears wheel together, and so are called the Wains. Their heads they ever keep each toward the other's flanks, and ever are they borne shoulder-foremost, turned the contrary way, toward each other's shoulders. If it be true, from Crete those Bears, by great Zeus's will, went up into heaven, because, when he was an infant then in fragrant Dicte, near the Idaean mountain, they set him in a cave and reared him for a year, while the Dictaean Curetes deceived Cronus. The one of them men call by the name Cynosura, the other Helice. By Helice the Achaean men judge upon the sea where they must steer their ships, but in the other the Phoenicians trust to cross the deep. Yet the one is clear and easy to discern, Helice, shining broad from the first of night; the other is small, but for sailors the better, for in a smaller circle she wheels entire; by her the Sidonians steer the straightest course.

Between the two of them, like a branch of a river, there winds a great marvel, the Dragon, sprawling round and round, of monstrous size; and on either side of his coil are borne the Bears, kept clear of the dark-blue ocean. With his tail-tip he reaches over the one, and cuts off the other with his coil. The very point of his tail ends beside the head of the Bear Helice; in his coil Cynosura keeps her head; and round about her his coil winds, and comes even to her foot, and back again rises returning. Not one star alone and single shines upon his head, but two upon his temples, two upon his eyes; and one below holds the end of the jaw of the dread monster. Slanting is his head, and altogether he seems to nod toward the tip of Helice's tail; and straight in line are his mouth and the right of his temple with the lowest part of her tail. Thither his head verges, where the very tips of the settings and the risings mingle with each other.

There, hard by, rolls a phantom like a man toiling. Of it no one knows clearly how to tell, nor at what labour he is hung; but simply they call him the Kneeler. Laboriously on his knees he seems to crouch; from both his shoulders his hands are raised; and they stretch each a different way as much as a fathom's span; and over the middle of his head he holds the tip of the right foot of the winding Dragon.

There too is that Crown, which gracious Dionysus set to be a memorial of Ariadne, now passed away; it wheels beneath the back of the wearied Phantom.

Toward his back the Crown draws near; but at the head's very tip look beside it for the head of Ophiuchus, and from that you may mark out the Serpent-bearer himself, shining bright; such, set beneath his head, are his gleaming shoulders to be seen; even at the full moon they would show clear; but his hands are not quite equal, for a faint gleam runs over them, this way and that. Yet even so they are visible, for they are not feeble; and both are busied with the Serpent, which round the middle coils about Ophiuchus; but he, firmly planted, treads the great beast with both his feet, the Scorpion, standing upright upon its eye and breast. But the Serpent twists in his two hands, a little in his right, but high up much in his left. And its very jaws lean toward the Crown, while below its coil look for the great Claws. But they are wanting in light, and nowise bright.

Behind Helice is borne, like a man driving, Arctophylax, whom men call the Ploughman, Bootes, because he seems to lay hand upon the Wain-like Bear. And he is altogether very bright; and beneath his girdle Arcturus himself wheels conspicuous among the others, a star. And beneath both feet of Bootes look for the Maiden, who bears in her hands the gleaming Ear of corn.

Whether then she is of the race of Astraeus, whom they say was the ancient father of the stars, or of some other, may she be borne in peace. But another tale runs among men, that of old she dwelt upon the earth, and came face to face with men, nor ever did she spurn the tribes of men of old, nor of women, but sat among them, immortal though she was. And they called her Justice; gathering the elders together, either in the marketplace or in the broad-wayed street, she sang, urging on them the ordinances for the people's good. Not yet then did they know of grievous strife, nor of fault-finding quarrel, nor of the din of war, but simply they lived; the harsh sea was held far off, and not yet did ships bring livelihood from afar, but oxen and ploughs and Justice herself, queen of the peoples, giver of things just, furnished all in countless store. So it was, while still the earth nourished the Golden Race. With the Silver she consorted little, and no longer wholly willing, longing for the ways of the men of old. Yet even so she was still present in that Silver Race; but she came down from the echoing mountains toward evening alone, nor mingled in friendly talk with any; but whenever she had filled the great hilltops with men, then would she threaten, rebuking their wickedness, and said she would no more come face to face though they called her: 'What a race the golden fathers left behind, a meaner one! and you will breed children baser still. And surely there will be wars, and surely unnatural bloodshed will fall upon men, and grievous pain will lie heavy on them.' So saying she sought the mountains, and left all the peoples still gazing after her toward herself. But when those too had died, and there were born the Bronze Race, men more deadly than the former, who first forged the malefactor's sword for the highway, and first ate of the labouring oxen, then Justice, hating that race of men, flew up beneath the heaven; and she took up her dwelling in that place where still by night she shows to men as the Maiden, near the much-marked Bootes.

Above both her shoulders wheels a star on her right wing; and it is called the Vintager; of such a size, and set in such a brightness, as that which shines beneath the tail of the Great Bear. For dread is that Bear, and dread are the stars near her; you could not, looking at them, mark out those that wheel and trace her form behind; such a one is borne before her feet, fair and great, one beneath her forefeet, one of those descending from her flank, another under her hind knees; but all of them, single, are borne nameless, each in its own place.

At her head are the Twins, and beneath her middle the Crab; and at her hinder feet the Lion shines fair. There are the sun's hottest paths; and the fields are seen empty of corn-ears when first the sun comes together with the Lion. Then too the roaring Etesian winds upon the broad sea fall in throngs, and voyaging with oars is no longer in season. Broad ships are then my choice, and let the steersmen hold their oars against the wind.

But if it seems good to you to mark the Charioteer and his stars, and the report has come to you of the Goat herself and of the Kids, who often upon the darkening sea have watched men scattered in shipwreck, you will find him, all great, leaning to the left of the Twins; and over against him the topmost head of Helice wheels. Upon his left shoulder is driven the holy Goat, which the tale says gave the breast to Zeus, and the interpreters of Zeus call her the Olenian Goat. She is large and bright; but there at his wrist the Kids shine faintly upon his hand.

At the feet of the Charioteer look for the horned Bull crouching. And the signs lie very like to him; such is his head, distinctly marked; nor could one by any other sign mark out the head of the ox, so well do the very stars on either side, wheeling, trace its shape. Right often is their name spoken, nor are the Hyades thus unheard of. They are flung upon all the forehead of the Bull; the tip of his left horn and the right foot of the Charioteer, set beside him, one star holds; and driven together they are borne along, but ever the Bull is foremost of the Charioteer in going down to the west, though they rise together.

Nor shall the toilsome race of Cepheus, the son of Iasus, lie thus unspoken; but they too have come by name into heaven, since they were near to Zeus. He himself, set behind the Cynosurian Bear, Cepheus, is like a man stretching out both hands; a line equal to that from the tip of the tail is stretched to both his feet, as far as foot reaches to foot. But from his girdle you may turn your gaze a little to the first coil of the great Dragon.

Before him rolls, not very large, shining in the full-moon night, the wretched Cassiopeia; for not many nor alternating are the stars that gleam upon her and mark her out in a row. As with a key one strikes the bolts of a double door fitted within and drives them back, so single, set beneath her, do her stars appear. From her small shoulders she stretches but a fathom's span. You would say she grieves over her child.

For there too rolls that grievous figure, of Andromeda, set off beneath her mother. I do not think you need search all the night to find her at once; so plain is her head, and so plain on either side her shoulders, and the tips of her feet, and all her girdle. Yet even there she is stretched out with arms apart, and her bonds lie upon her even in heaven; lifted up and spread, those hands of hers stay so for ever.

But upon her head a monstrous Horse is driven, by his lower belly; a common star shines upon the navel of the one and the topmost head of the other. And three other stars besides upon the Horse's flanks and shoulders mark out, spread apart, equal spaces, fair and great; but his head is nothing like, nor his neck, long though it is. Yet the last star of his blazing jaw might vie with the four former ones, that hold him, conspicuous though they are. Nor is he four-footed; for from his navel's edge the holy Horse rises half-complete from the middle. Him they say it was who brought down from high Helicon the fair water of fertile Hippocrene. For not yet did the height of Helicon flow with springs, but the Horse struck it; and from that very place the gathered water gushed out at the blow of his forefoot; and the shepherds first named that draught Hippocrene. But that flows from the rock, nor ever shall you see it far from the men of Thespiae; while the Horse wheels in the realm of Zeus, and is there for you to gaze upon.

There too are the swiftest paths of the Ram, which, though chased over the longest circuits, runs no whit slower than the Cynosurian Bear, itself dim and starless, such that by the moon you would look for it, yet by Andromeda's girdle you might mark it out; for a little below her it is set. In the mid heaven it treads, where the very tips of the Claws and the belt of Orion wheel.

There is yet another sign, wrought near, below Andromeda, marked off by three sides, the Triangle, with two of them like and equal, the third not so long, yet very ready to be found; for it is richer in stars than many. A little south of the Ram are its stars.

And still farther on, in the forecourts of the south, are the Fishes. But ever the one is foremost of the other, and the more it hears the north wind newly coming down. From both of them, like bonds, are stretched the chains of their tails, joining on either side into one. And these one star holds, fair and great, which they call the knot beneath the tails. Let Andromeda's left shoulder be your mark for the more northern Fish; for it is very near to her.

Both her feet would mark out her bridegroom Perseus, who are ever borne upon his shoulders. He himself, taller than the rest, is borne in the north. His right hand is stretched toward the seat of his bride's mother's throne; and his feet, as if pursuing, lengthen his strides, dust-covered, in Zeus his father.

Near his left knee, all together, the Pleiades are borne. No great space holds them all, and they themselves are faint to look on. Seven in path they are sung of among men, though but six are visible to the eyes. Yet surely no star has perished unmarked from heaven since the time we have heard of from of old; but simply so it is said. The seven are called by name: Alcyone and Merope and Celaeno and Electra and Sterope and Taygeta and queenly Maia. Small alike and faint they are, but renowned at morning and at evening they wheel — and Zeus is the cause, who bade them give the sign both of summer and of winter beginning, and of the ploughing that comes on.

There too is the Tortoise-shell, which is small; this, while still by his cradle, Hermes pierced through, and bade it be called the Lyre; and he set it before the unknown Phantom, bringing it into heaven. And its bent shell draws near to his left knee; while the head's tip wheels over against the Bird; and it is fixed midway between the Bird's head and the knee.

For indeed beside Zeus too runs a dappled Bird. Misty it is, but upon it are roughened stars not over-large, yet not feeble. Like a bird flying in fair weather it is borne with fair wind toward the other quarter, stretching the tips of its right wing toward the right hand of Cepheus, while by its left wing leaps the prancing of the Horse.

About the Horse, as he leaps, the two Fishes feed on either side; and beside his head the right hand of the Water-pourer is stretched out; and behind him the Goat-horned rises. But farther forward, and lower down, leans Capricorn, where the strength of the sun turns back. In that month be not caught out by the sea upon the open deep, if you have need of it. Neither by day would you accomplish much, since the days are shortest; nor, frightened in the night, would the dawn come near to you soon, though you cried out for it long and loud. And grievous then the south winds dash on, when with Capricorn the sun comes together; then is the cold from Zeus worse for the numbed sailor. But all the same, already through all the year the sea beneath the keels grows dark; and like diving sea-gulls often from the ships, peering round upon the deep, we sit, turned toward the shores; but still farther off they are washed by the waves; and a little plank keeps off death.

And already in the month before, having suffered much at sea, when the sun scorches the Bow and the wielder of the Bow, you should at evening put to land, trusting the night no more. A sign to you of that season and that month will be the Scorpion rising at the end of the night. For the great Bow is drawn near the Sting by the Archer; and a little before him stands the Scorpion as it rises, while he comes up straightway after. Then too the head of Cynosura at the night's edge wheels very high, while before dawn there sets all together Orion, and Cepheus from hand to waist.

There is another Arrow, shot forth before, alone without a bow; and beside it spreads the Bird, nearer to the north. And close by it flies another, not so great in size, hard to come up out of the sea as the night departs; and they call it the Eagle. The Dolphin, not very large, runs above Capricorn, misty in the midst; and around it lie four glittering stars, set side by side, two by two.

These, then, are spread between the north and the wandering sun; but below there rise others, many, between the south and the sun's path. Slanting, beneath the cutting of the Bull, leans Orion himself. Let no one who on a clear night passes him by, crouching aloft, trust to behold, looking up at the heaven, anything more excellent. Such too is the guardian seen beneath his uplifted back, the Dog, standing on its two feet, dappled, but not everywhere alight; but at the very belly it wheels dark-blue, while at its tip a star is set, a dread jaw, which most of all blazes sharp; and men call it Sirius. No longer, when it rises together with the sun, do the orchards deceive, putting forth feeble leaves. For lightly does it sort out the ranks, darting keen, and strengthens some, but destroys the bark of others utterly. Of its setting too we hear; and the rest of the stars lie about its limbs, fainter as a sign.

Beneath both feet of Orion the Hare is chased continually all the days. Yet ever behind Sirius is borne, like one in pursuit, and rises upon it, and watches it as it sets. And by the tail of the great Dog is drawn, stern-foremost, the dim Argo; for not in the due course are her paths, but she is borne turned backward, as ships themselves are when now the sailors turn the prow about, entering harbour; and every man at once checks the ship, and back-rushing she fastens upon the shore; so stern-foremost is Jason's Argo drawn. And misty and starless is she up to the very mast from the prow, but the rest is all bright. And her rudder, loosed, is set fixed beneath the hind feet of the Dog as it goes before.

And Andromeda, crouching not a little far off, the great Sea-monster presses, as it comes upon her. For she is borne leaning under the breath of the Thracian north wind, but the south brings against her the hostile Monster, beneath the Ram and both the Fishes, set a little above the starry River. For there too, alone, beneath the feet of the gods is borne a remnant of Eridanus, the much-wept river. And it stretches beneath the left foot of Orion; and the bonds of the tails, by which the Fishes are held at their ends, both are borne together, coming down from the tails; and behind the Monster's ridge they are borne mingled, driven into one; and they end at one star of the Monster, which lies upon its first spine. And of small measure and set in scant brightness between the rudder and the Monster they wheel, crouching beneath the sides of the grey Hare, nameless; for they are not flung as limbs resembling any wrought figure, such as many in their ranks pass by along the selfsame paths as the years go round; which one of the men no longer living devised, and thought to call them all by name, shaping them in groups. For he could not have named all the stars singly distinguished, nor learned them; for many are they everywhere, and of many the measure and the colour are alike, and all are wheeling. Therefore it seemed good to him to make the stars into companies, that set in order side by side they might mark out shapes. And at once the constellations got their names, and no longer now does a star rise to men's wonder. But those are seen set firm in clear figures; while below the chased Hare all are borne misty and nameless.

Below Capricorn, under the breath of the south wind, a Fish hangs, turned toward the Monster, apart from the former ones, and they call it the Southern. And others, scattered, set beneath the Water-pourer, between the heavenly Monster and the Fish are hung, midmost, sluggish and nameless; and near them, from the right hand of the glorious Water-pourer, like a little outpouring of water scattered this way and that, they wheel, dim and feeble. And among them two more conspicuous are borne, stars not far apart, nor very near: one beneath both feet of the Water-pourer, fair and great, the other beneath the tail of the dark-blue Monster. All of these together they call the Water. And a few others, below the Archer, beneath his forefeet, wheel in a rounded ring.

But beneath the blazing sting of the great monster the Scorpion, near the south, the Altar hangs. For but a little while you will mark it high aloft; for it rises over against Arcturus. And to Arcturus its paths are very far in the height, but the quicker does it pass under the western sea. Yet around that Altar ancient Night, weeping for the toil of men, set a great sign of storm at sea. For ships scattered are far from her heart, and from this quarter and that she shows signs, pitying men in their many-billowed plight.

Therefore on the deep pray not that, wrapped in clouds elsewhere, that star may shine in the midst of heaven, itself cloudless and bright, but pressed high above by a swelling cloud, as oft befalls when it is crushed by the autumn wind driving the cloud up. For often this too as a sign of the south wind contrives Night herself, doing grace to toiling sailors. And they, if they obey her seasonable signing, and at once make all things light and trim, straightway the labour grows lighter; but if upon the ship from on high a dread blast of wind dashes, thus all unforeseen, and throws all the sails into confusion, sometimes they sail wholly submerged, but sometimes, if by Zeus passing by they chance to be praying, and the north wind's strength flashes athwart, after much hardship they yet again behold one another upon the ship. But at this sign fear the south wind, until you see the north flashing forth.

But if from the western sea the Centaur's shoulder be as far as the former, and a little mist wrap him round, while behind the Night fashions like signs upon the all-shining Altar, you need not greatly watch toward the south, but toward the east wind look about. And you will find that constellation set beneath two others; for the parts of it like a man lie below the Scorpion, while the horse-tail parts the Claws hold beneath them. And he ever seems to stretch his right hand toward the rounded Altar, and clenched within it another beast is gripped, driven through his hand, a Beast; for so the men of old named it.

But still another constellation is drawn from across: the Hydra they call it, and like a living thing it winds on without break; and its head comes beneath the middle of the Crab, its coil beneath the Lion's body, and its tail hangs over the Centaur himself. In the middle of its coil is the Bowl, and on the end is set the figure of the Raven, as if pecking at the coil. And there too Procyon shines fair beneath the Twins.

These you may behold, as the years pass by, all returning in order; for all these alike are well set in heaven, the adornments of the passing night.

But there are besides five other stars, in nowise like, that wheel everywhere through the twelve figures. No longer, looking to the others, could you mark out where those lie; for all of them are wanderers, and long are the years of their wheeling, and far apart lie their signs as they come into one. No longer am I bold concerning them; enough that I be able to tell the circles of the fixed stars and the signs in heaven.

Lo, there lie, like to wheels, four circles, of which one would most desire and find the use who marks the measures of the passing years. Signs are well set, named, around them all, many and everywhere close-joined together. They themselves are fixed and fitted each to each, all of them; but in measure two answer to two.

If ever on a clear night, when all the bright stars heavenly Night shows to men, and none of the feeble is borne dim at the full moon, but all shine sharp through the darkness — if ever then a wonder came into your mind, as you marked all about the heaven cleft by a broad circle, or if some other, standing by, showed you that ring set round with sparkles, which they call Milk — in colour no longer like to it does any circle wheel, but in measure, of the four though they be, the two are so, while the others wheel far smaller.

Of these one is near the descending north. In it are borne both the heads of the Twins, and in it lie the knees of the well-set Charioteer, and the left leg and left shoulder upon it of Perseus, and Andromeda's right arm above the elbow it holds; and her palm lies high, nearer the north, while toward the south leans her elbow; and the hooves of the Horse, and the neck of the Bird with the head's tip, and the fair shoulders of Ophiuchus, all wheel driven about that very circle; but a little to the south is borne, nor touches it, the Maiden; while the Lion and the Crab — these two lie set in order; and the circle cuts the one beneath the breast and belly down to the loins, and the other right through, beneath the shell of the Crab, where most you might mark it cloven straight, that the eyes might go on either side of the circle. Of it, divided as nearly as may be into eight, five parts wheel in the daylight above the earth, and three below the horizon; and in it is the summer solstice. This circle is fixed in the north about the Crab.

Another, over against it in the south, cuts the middle of Capricorn and the feet of the Water-pourer and the Monster's tail; in it is the Hare; but of the Dog it takes not much, only as much as it holds with its feet; and in it is the Argo, and the great back of the Centaur, and in it the sting of the Scorpion, and the Bow of the glorious Archer. Passing this last circle of the clear north toward the south the sun is borne; and there it turns in winter. And of the eight parts three wheel high, while the five are wheeled below the earth.

Midway between the two, as great as the grey Milk, a circle turns beneath the earth, like one bisecting; and in it the days are made equal to the nights both times, at the fading of summer and at the setting-in of spring. A sign for it is the Ram and the knees of the Bull, the Ram drawn lengthwise through the circle, and of the Bull as much of the legs as shows in his crouching. In it is the belt of the bright Orion and the coil of the blazing Hydra; in it too the dim Bowl, in it the Raven, in it stars not very many of the Claws; and in it the knees of Ophiuchus are borne. It is not bereft of the Eagle, but near to it the great messenger of Zeus flies. And along it the Horse's head and neck wheel. Upright and side by side the axle wraps them round, holding all in the middle; but the fourth circle is gripped slanting in the two, which on either side hold it, the tropics over against each other, and the middle one cuts it midmost. No man taught by the hands of Athena could fit together rolling wheels such and so many, turning all spherewise, as those, joined in heaven by the slanting circle, are driven from dawn to night all the days.

And they rise, and straightway set below, all at the slant; one and the same for each in order, on either hand, is the going down and the going up. But the sun passes over so much of Ocean's water as it rolls from the rising Capricorn, most of all, to the rising Crab; as much as everywhere it covers in rising, so much elsewhere in setting. As much as the beam of the eye's glance cuts off, six times so great would run beneath it; but each part, measured equal, cuts off two constellations.

The Circle of the Living Creatures men call it by name. In it is the Crab, the Lion upon it, and beneath it the Maiden; and upon her the Claws and the Scorpion himself, the Archer and Capricorn, and upon Capricorn the Water-pourer; and beneath him two Fishes are set with stars; and after them the Ram, the Bull upon it, and the Twins. Through all these twelve the sun is borne, leading on the whole year; and as it goes round this circle, all the fruitful seasons wax. As much of it as sinks beneath the hollow Ocean, so much is borne above the earth; and in every night ever six dozen-parts of the circle set, and as many rise. And of such length each night is ever stretched as is half the circle lifted above the earth from the night's beginning.

It would not be amiss for one watching for the divisions of the day to mark when each rises; for ever with one of them rises the sun himself. And these you might best mark well by looking at them; but if, blackened by clouds, or hidden by a hill, they should rise, make for yourself fixed signs by the constellations coming on. And Ocean himself on either of his horns would give them you, the many that wheel about with him, from below, whenever it brings up each of them.

Not feeblest, when the Crab rises, are the stars that wheel set on either side, some setting, some rising from the other quarter. There sets the Crown, and along the spine sets the Fish. Half of the Crown you may see aloft, and half already its outer edges touch as it goes down. But that other, turned backward, is not yet borne up in its lower belly, while its upper parts move in the night.

Him too the Crab brings down to the shoulders, the toiling Ophiuchus, from the knees, and brings down the Serpent near the neck. Nor any longer would Arctophylax be much above the horizon on either side, being less by day, and the more by night. For in four divisions, all together, the descending Bootes Ocean receives; and he, when sated with light, holds at oxen-loosing time more than half the night going on, when as the sun goes down he sets. Those are called his nights of late setting.

So they set, while he, over against them, in nowise unseemly, but bright in his belt and bright in both his shoulders, Orion, trusting in the might of his sword, bearing all the River, stretches beside the other horn.

As the Lion comes on, all those things go down with the Crab that were setting, and the Eagle. But the Kneeler, seated, has now some parts gone, but his knee and left foot not yet does the swelling Ocean hide. There rise the head of the Hydra, the grey Hare, and Procyon, and the forefeet of the blazing Dog.

Not few indeed beneath the lowest parts of earth does the Maiden cast as she rises. Then the Cyllenian Lyre and the Dolphin set, and the well-made Arrow; with them the first feathers of the Bird, as far as its very tail, and the trailings of the River are darkened; the Horse's head sets, and sets too his neck. There rises the Hydra ever more, up to the very Bowl, and the Dog, before it, takes its other feet, drawing behind it the stern of the much-starred Argo. And she runs, bisecting the land at her very mast, when the Maiden is wholly come up from across.

Nor as the Claws come on, faintly shining, would they pass unmarked, since the great sign of Bootes rises all together, smitten with Arcturus. And the Argo will now be wholly aloft; but the Hydra, since it is poured out vast in heaven, will lack its tail. The Claws bring up alone the dread Ophiuchus, standing erect; and after him his right shin up to the very knee, ever the Kneeler, ever crouching by the Lyre, whom — unseen of the heavenly figures — both setting and rising from the other quarter often in the same night we behold. Of him then only the shin is seen, with both the Claws; while he himself, his head still turned elsewhere, awaits the rising Scorpion and the wielder of the Bow; for these bring him up — the one his middle and all the rest, the other his left hand and head together with the Bow. So in three pieces, limb by limb, is he borne up.

Half the Crown, and the very last tail of the Centaur, the rising Claws bring up. Then the Horse sets, his head having gone before, and the last tail of the former Bird is dragged down. There sets the head of Andromeda; and a great terror to her, the Monster, the misty south wind brings on; but over against, Cepheus from the north with his great hand gives the command. And the Monster, turned toward its ridge, sets up to that very point, while Cepheus sinks with head and hand and shoulder.

The windings of the River, even as the Scorpion comes on, will fall into the fair-flowing Ocean; which as it rises affrights great Orion. Be gracious, Artemis! There is a tale of men of old, who said that he laid hold of her robe, when in Chios all the beasts the strong Orion smote with his stout club, winning a favour of the chase for Oenopion. But she straightway sent up against him another beast, rending the island's hills asunder in the midst on either side, the Scorpion, which wounded and killed him, mighty though he was, appearing the greater, since he had grieved Artemis herself. For this cause they say that, when from across the Scorpion rises, Orion flees about the ends of the earth. Nor, of what was left of Andromeda and the Monster, are they unmarked while it rises, but they too flee in all haste. And then Cepheus by his girdle grazes the earth, dipping all his upper parts down to the head into Ocean, but the rest it is not lawful — the Bears forbid it, his feet and knees and loins.

And she herself, hastening after her child's figure, wretched Cassiopeia; no longer in seemly fashion does she show from her throne, with feet and knees uppermost, but she sets headlong, like a diver, parted at the knees, since she was not, after all, to vie unpunished with Doris and Panope, the great ones. She is borne to the other quarter; while from below other things the heaven brings up against her, the latter circles of the Crown and the end of the Hydra, and it brings up of the Centaur the body and head and the Beast which in his right hand the Centaur holds. And there they wait, the forefeet of the horse-man Beast, the coming Bow.

With the Bow rise the coil of the Serpent and the body of Ophiuchus as it comes on; but their heads the very Scorpion brings up as it rises, and it brings up the hands of Ophiuchus and the foremost ring of the much-starred Serpent.

Of the Kneeler — for ever turned about he rises — then come up from the horizon his other parts, his limbs and girdle and all his breast and shoulder with the right hand; while his head, with the other hand, rises with the Bow as the Archer rises. With these the Hermaean Lyre, and up to the breast Cepheus is driven past the eastern Ocean, at the hour when all the gleamings of the great Dog set, and all of Orion goes down, and all, yet unaccomplished, of the chased Hare.

But not for the Charioteer do the Kids and the Olenian Goat go straight away; they shine upon his great hand, and are marked off from his other limbs to stir up storms when they meet the sun.

But these — his head and his other hand and his loin — rising Capricorn brings down; and all his lower parts go down with the Archer himself. Nor does Perseus nor the topmost peaks of the much-starred Argo remain; but Perseus, save for his knee and his right foot, sets, and so much of the stern as makes its curve; and she herself sets as Capricorn rises, at the hour when Procyon too sets, and these come up: others — the Bird and the Eagle and the stars of the feathered Arrow, and the holy seat of the southern Altar.

The Horse, as the Water-pourer newly rises, with feet and head winds up; and over against the Horse, from its tail, starry Night draws up the Centaur. But it cannot hold his head nor his broad shoulders together with his breastplate. But the neck-coil of the blazing Hydra it brings down, and all its forehead. And much of it stays behind too; but that also, with the Centaur himself, when the Fishes rise, is borne up all at once. And after the Fishes comes the Fish that lies beneath the dark-blue Capricorn, not all of it, but a little it still awaits the next dozen-part.

So too the toiling hands and knees and shoulders of Andromeda, all in two parts, some before, some behind, are stretched, when newly from Ocean come up both the Fishes. The parts toward her right hand they themselves draw up, while her left from below draws the Ram as it rises. As it too wheels up

from the west you may see the Altar; while in the other quarter so much of Perseus rising as his head and shoulders. And her very girdle would be a matter of dispute, whether it shows at the Ram's ending or upon the Bull, with which it winds up all together. Nor does it fail of the Bull as he rises, since closely joined to it the Charioteer is borne; yet not in this same part does he rise all together, but the Twins bring him up whole. But the Kids and the sole of the left foot, with the Goat herself, are borne up with the Bull, when the ridge and tail of the heavenly Monster rise from across. There sets Arctophylax then in the first division of those four which bring him down, all save his left hand; and that rises beside the great Bear herself.

Let both feet of the setting Ophiuchus, up to the very knees, be a sign upon the Twins as they rise from the other quarter. Then no longer is anything of the Monster drawn on either side, but you will see it whole already. Already too the first bend of the River, coming up out of the sea, the sailor might mark in the clear deep, watching for Orion himself, if anywhere a sign of the measures of the night or of his voyage it might announce. For everywhere the gods give men many signs.

Do you not see? When the moon, slender with her horns, shows from the west, she teaches of the waxing month; when first her light is shed abroad from her, enough to cast a shadow, going on to the fourth day; at eight she is half, and at the full she shows her whole face. And ever, inclining now this brow, now that, she tells on what day of the month the dawn comes round. The tips of the nights those twelve divisions suffice to declare. But for the great year, the season to plough the fallows, the season to plant, from Zeus already all stands shown everywhere.

And many a man upon his ship, in the storm-tossed winter, has taken thought, remembering dread Arcturus or some other of the stars that are drawn from Ocean, the stars of twilight, and those of the early night. For indeed the sun passes them all in the year, driving his great furrow, and now into one, now another he enters, sometimes rising, sometimes straightway setting; and ever a different star looks upon a different dawn. You know these things too, for already are sung together the nineteen circles of the bright sun, all that from the belt to the last of Orion the night wheels round, and the bold Dog of Orion, and the stars that, seen of Poseidon or of Zeus himself, give to men their fashioned signs. Therefore labour over these; and let it be your care, if ever you trust yourself to a ship, to find whatever signs lie laid up of the wintry winds or of the squall of the deep. The toil is small, but countless straightway is the gain of forethought to the man who keeps ever on his guard. First he is the safer himself, and well too he profits another by warning, when a storm is roused near at hand.

For often, on a calm night, a man trims his ship close, fearing the morning sea; sometimes it comes upon the third day, sometimes the fifth, and sometimes the evil comes unforeseen; for not all things yet do we men know from Zeus, but much is still hidden, of which, if he will, Zeus will give even straightway; for he it is that aids the race of men openly, appearing on every side, and everywhere showing his signs.

Other signs the moon will tell you, half-full on either side of her fulness, or just newly full; others the sun rising, and others bidding at the night's edge. And from other things too other signs there will be for you to mark, both about the night and the day.

Mark first the moon on either side of her horns. For now with one gleam, now with another, the evening writes upon her, and now different shapes give horns to the moon as straightway she waxes, some on the third day, some on the fourth; and from these you might learn how the month stands. Slender and clear about the third day she is, and it will be fair weather; slender and very red, it bodes wind; but thicker, and with blunted horns, if on the fourth from the third she has a feeble light, either she is blunted by the south wind or because water is near. But if from both her horns, leading the third day, she neither nods forward nor shows tilted back, but upright on either side her horns bend round, then west winds after that night will blow. And if likewise upright she leads the fourth day too, truly she would teach of a storm gathering. And if the upper of her horns nods well forward, look for the north wind; but when she tilts back, for the south. But when at the third day the whole circle wheels round reddening everywhere, then it would be very stormy; and with a greater storm the more fiery red she flushes.

Look too at her fulness and at both her halves, both as she waxes and as she comes again to her horns, and by her colour judge of each month. For everywhere clear she would betoken very fair weather; reddening all over, the paths of wind; and dark in one place and another, of rain. But signs are not made on all the days alike; yet whatever signs come on the third and fourth, up to the half, betoken until the half is reached; and from the half they betoken to the full, and again from the full to the waning half; and next to it comes at once the fourth from the month's end, and the third of the month coming on.

And if all about her the haloes ring her round, whether three or two encircling, or but one alone: with the one, look for wind or for calm — if it breaks, for wind; if it fades, for calm; the two would wheel about the moon in storm; and a greater storm the triple halo would bring, and the more if it darkens, and the more if it breaks. These signs of the moon, then, you may learn month by month.

But of the sun take heed as he goes on either side. For by the sun too signs more sure are set, both as he sets and as he rises from the horizon. Let his disc not be dappled when newly he strikes the fields, when you have need of a fair day, nor bear any sign, but show plain everywhere. And if likewise the oxen-loosing hour keeps him clear, and cloudless toward evening he sets with soft gleam, then at the coming dawn it would still be fair. But not so when he wheels up looking hollow, nor when his rays, some to the south and some to the north, split apart and strike, while the midst shines bright, but rather either rain passes through or wind.

Mark too, if the sun's beams will let you, the sun himself; for of him the watchings are best: if perchance some redness runs upon him, such as often reddens here and there from drawn-out clouds, or if anywhere he darkens; and let the dark be to you signs of coming water, and the reddenings all of wind. But if he is marked with both at once, then he would bring both water and stretch out windy. And if, either as he rises or straightway as he sets, his rays come together and crowd upon one point, or if perchance, pressed by clouds, he comes to dawn out of the night, or from dawn toward night, with coming water would those days run by. Nor, when before him a little cloud rises, and behind it he himself comes up needing his rays, forget the rain. And when a great circle about him, like to one melting, broadens out at his first rising, and again shrinks smaller, fair weather it would bring; and if ever in the winter season he grows pale as he sets. But of rain by day coming on, watch the clouds afterward, turned toward the setting sun.

If a cloud, like one growing black, overshadows the sun, and the rays about him here and there split, wheeling between, then you would still need shelter against the dawn. But if cloudless he dips into the western stream, while at his setting, and still after he is gone, clouds stand near reddening, you need not greatly dread rain for the morrow nor in the night. But when, like the rays of a fading sun, suddenly the beams are stretched from heaven, such as are dimmed when the moon shadows him, standing straight between the earth and the sun. Nor, when at his stay before dawn there appear clouds over-red here and there, are the fields unwet on that day. Nor likewise, when, he being still beyond the horizon, the rays stretched forth show shadowy before the dawn, forget that water or wind will come down. But if those rays are borne more in the darkness, the more would they betoken water; and if a little gloom is drawn about the rays, such as soft clouds chiefly bear, truly with the coming of wind they would grow dark about. Nor are haloes blackening near the sun signs of fair weather; the nearer and the more unmoved they blacken, the more wintry; and two would be the harsher still. Mark too, either as he rises or straightway as he sets, if anywhere of clouds what they call the mock-suns redden, to south or north, or on either side, nor keep that watching feebly. For not, when on both sides at once about the middle they hold the sun, those clouds near Ocean, is there any putting-off, from Zeus, of the coming storm. But if from the north one alone is reddened, from the north it would bring blasts, and the southern one of the south, or perchance drops of rain run on. And to these western signs trust the rather; for from the west alike the signs are sure for ever.

Mark too the Manger. Like a faint mist in the north beneath the Crab it goes; and about it two faintly-shining stars are borne, not far apart, nor very near, but about a cubit, as one might judge; one toward the north, and the other leans toward the south. And these are called the Asses; and between them is the Manger. Which on a sudden, when Zeus is everywhere fair, grows wholly invisible; and the two stars on either side seem to come close together near each other: with no small storm then are the fields washed. But if it blackens, while the two stars at once stay alike, of water would they give the sign. And if the Ass to the north of the Manger shows faint, dimmed with a thin mist, and the southern Ass is bright, look for the south wind; but to the north must you look in turn, when the south one shows misty and the north bright.

A sign of wind let the swelling sea be to you, and the shores far roaring, and the sea-beaches, when in fair weather they grow loud, and the topmost peaks of a mountain crying out. And when toward the dry land the heron, out of order, comes from the sea, screaming loud and long, a wind would be moving over the sea. And sometimes the storm-petrels, when they fly in fair weather, are borne in flocks against the coming winds. Often the wild ducks, or the sea-diving gulls, beat their wings upon the land; or a cloud lengthens out upon the mountain peaks. And now the thistle-down, the bloom of the white thistle, has been a sign of wind, when many of it float on the surface of the dumb sea, some before, some behind. And in summer, where the thunders and lightnings come from, thence look for the wind coming on. And through the dark night, when the stars dart thick, and behind them the tracks shine white, look in that same quarter for the wind that comes; but if others dart against them, and others from other parts, then guard yourself against winds of every kind, which most of all are uncertain, and uncertainly do they blow for men to judge by. But when from the east and from the south it lightens, and at another time from the west, and at another from the north, then indeed a sailor on the deep is afraid, lest on this side the sea hold him, and on that the rain from Zeus; for with rain so many lightnings are borne.

Often, when rains are coming, the clouds before them show very like to fleeces of wool, or a double rainbow girds the great heaven, or some star has a darkening halo. Often the marsh-birds or the sea-birds are washed insatiate, plunging into the waters, or about the pool long do the swallows dart, striking with their bellies the water rippling so; or, more wretched broods, a blessing to the water-snakes, from the water itself the fathers of frogs croak, or at dawn the lonely tree-frog whines, or by the jutting shore the chattering crow, when the storm is coming, has dipped its head on the dry land, or has dipped in the river up to the very top of its shoulders from the head, or wholly dives, or much it turns about the water, cawing harshly.

And the oxen, before water-laden weather, have looked up at the sky and snuffed the air; and the ants from their hollow den have brought up all their eggs in haste; and in a throng appear the millipedes crawling up the walls, and those wandering worms, which men call the entrails of the black earth. And the tame fowls, that are the brood of the cock, have preened themselves well and croaked aloud, a sound like the plash of water dropping upon water. And the broods of ravens and tribes of jackdaws, when water is coming from Zeus, have been a sign, appearing in flocks and crying out like hawks. And the ravens have mimicked with their voice the heavy drops that come with the coming water; or sometimes, having croaked twice with a heavy voice, they whirr a long screech, shaking their thick feathers; and the house-ducks and the eave-dwelling jackdaws, as it comes on, shake their wings along the cornices, or upon the wave the heron darts, screaming shrill.

Of these let no sign be cast aside by him who guards against water; not even if, more than before, the flies bite and crave for blood, or the snuffs gather about the lamp's wick in the dark night; nor if, in the winter season, the lamps' flame sometimes rises in due order, sometimes the sparks dart off like light bubbles; nor if upon the lamp itself the rays gleam, nor if, while the great summer is spread wide, the island-birds are borne in throng on throng. Nor do you forget the pot, or the fire-set tripod, when the sparks about them are more than wont; nor when about the burning coal in the ashes there shine signs like to millet-grains, but watch even these, looking out for rain.

But if a misty cloud stretches along the base of a great mountain, while the topmost peaks show clear, then you would be in very fair weather. Fair too you would be when, beside the broad sea, a low cloud shows, nor reaches high, but is pressed there like a flat slab. Watch, when you are in fair weather, the rather for storm, and for calm out of storm. And it is well to look to the Manger, which the Crab wheels about, first cleared of all the mist below; for it is cleared when the storm is fading. And the still flames of the lamps, and the night-owl singing quietly as the storm dies away, let these be signs to you; and let the crow, softly varying her many-voiced note in the evening hour, caw; and the ravens, alone, crying in the wilderness twice, and then crying out together in a throng, and the more in flocks, when they think of their roost, full of voice; one would think they took joy, such notes they utter, like to clear singing, often about the bark of a tree, sometimes upon it, where they lie down and flutter homeward in return. And the cranes, before a soft calm, would stretch one steady course, all together, nor back-rushing would they be borne in fair weather.

But when from the stars the clear light is dimmed, and nowhere do pressing clouds come up against them, and nowhere does any other gloom run beneath, nor the moon, but on a sudden they are borne thus faint, no longer let this be to you a sign of calm, but look for storm; and when some clouds stay in their own place, while others beneath them, some shifting, some borne up behind — and the geese, clamouring as they hasten to their feed, a great sign of storm, and the nine-aged crow singing by night, and the jackdaws crying late, and the finch chirping at dawn, and all the birds fleeing from the sea, and the wren or the robin creeping into hollow dens, and the tribes of jackdaws coming from feeding in the dry field to their late roost.

Nor, when a great storm is coming, would the busy bees range far forward to their waxen pasture, but stay wheeling about their honey and their works; nor on high would the long files of cranes stretch their own paths, but, whirling, fly back again. Nor, when in calm the fine cobwebs float, and the flames of the lamp flicker as they fade, or fire kindles with difficulty, and the lamps that should be fair — trust then to storm. Why should I tell how many signs there are for men? For even from the unsightly ash itself, as it cakes, you might mark out snow, and from the lamp, of snow, when like millet-grains all round in a circle it has signs near the fiery wick, and from the live coal, of hail, when bright itself it shows, while in the midst, as if scaly, a cloud appears, from the fire blazing within.

The ilex-oaks too, weighed down with fruit, and the dark mastich-trees are not untried; and everywhere the busy gardener ever peers about, lest his harvest slip from his hand. The ilex-oaks, holding their measure of frequent acorns, would tell of a winter setting in the stronger. Let them not be over-laden everywhere beyond all measure, and far from drought may the fields fill with corn. Thrice does the mastich conceive, and thrice it has a growth of fruit, and each bears its signs in turn for the ploughing. For the ploughing season too they share in three, the middle and the two ends: the first fruit announces the first ploughing, the middle the middle, and the last of all the last. For whichever the teeming mastich bears most fairly, in that ploughing of the three would be the richest harvest, in the feeblest little, and in the middle a middling crop. So too the asphodel-stalk thrice flowers above the squill, signs to mark out a like harvest. As many as the ploughman has marked in the mastich's fruit, so many he reads in the squill's white flower.

But when the wasps in autumn everywhere swarm in great throngs, one might say that before the setting of the Pleiades a winter is coming on, such a whirl follows straightway upon the wasps. And the females among the swine, the females among sheep and goats, when they turn back from coupling, having received the males, and again couple anew — likewise from the wasps they would tell of a great winter. But at the late coupling of goats and sheep and swine the luckless man rejoices, to whom, ill-warmed, they show a fair year as they tread on toward it. The timely ploughman rejoices too at the flocks of cranes coming in season, but the untimely man the rather grieves; for so do winters come upon the cranes: to those coming early and the more in throngs the winter is early; but when late and not in flocks they appear, borne over a longer time and not many together, by the storm's delay the later works are aided. And if oxen and sheep, after the laden autumn, dig at the earth, and stretch their heads against the north wind, then very wintry would the very Pleiades, setting, bring the storm. Yet let them not dig overmuch; for a great winter out of measure is friend neither to plants nor to the ploughings. But let there be snow, deep, on the great fields, not yet broken, nor upon the springing grass, that a man may rejoice in plenty, awaiting it.

And let the stars above be ever alike; let not one nor two nor more grow long-haired with rays; for many grow long-haired in a year of drought. Nor does the man on the mainland rejoice at flocks of birds when from the islands many fall upon the fields at the coming of summer; for he sorely fears for his harvest, lest it come to him empty and chaffy, vexed with drought. But the goatherd rejoices at those same birds, when they come in measure, hoping thereafter for a year of plenteous milk. So toilsome and wandering, each from his own quarter, we men live. But the signs that lie before our feet all are ready to recognize, and to use forthwith.

By their lambs the shepherds have judged of storms, when toward the pasture they run the more eagerly hastening, and the rams from the flock, and the lambs too along the road frisk butting with their horns; or when, here and there, they leap with all four feet, the light ones, the horned with both; or when from the flock against their will they stir them, driving them home in the evening together, while everywhere of the grass they bite, even when bidden home by frequent stones. And from their oxen the ploughmen and herdsmen have learned of the storm setting in; for when the oxen with their tongue lick round the hoof of the foreleg, or stretch upon their right sides in their lair, the old ploughman looks for a putting-off of the ploughing. Nor, when full of lowing they gather coming to the steading at the oxen-loosing hour, do the gloomy heifers of meadow and pasture forthwith betoken that they will fill themselves storm-free. Nor are the goats, eager about the ilex thorns, in fair weather, nor the swine raging about the litter.

And when the wolf, alone, howls long, or when, little guarding himself against the ploughing men, he comes down to their works, like one needing shelter, near to men, that his lair may be there at hand, within three risings of the dawn look for a storm. So too by the former signs you might judge of coming winds or storm or rain, that very day or after it or yet the third toward dawn. But neither did the mice, if ever, squeaking the more, in fair weather they frisked, like dancers, go unmarked by the men of old; nor the dogs: for a dog too has scratched with both his feet, foreseeing the storm that comes on, and then those mice foretell the storm. And out of the water the crab too has gone ashore, when a storm is about to rush along the way. And the mice by day, turning the bedding with their feet, long for their nest, when they show signs of rain.

Of these despise nothing; it is well, upon a sign, to look for a sign; and the rather, when two go to the same, let hope grow, and at a third you may take heart. And ever you might count, as the year goes by, the signs, comparing whether perchance, even at a star, such a dawn shows as it rises or as it sets, as the sign declares; and it would be very profitable to mark, of the waning and of the oncoming month, both fourth days; for these hold the bounds of the months meeting together, when the sky is more treacherous for eight nights, in the lack of the bright moon. Having marked all these together through the year, never rashly would you judge upon the sky.