Book 15

15. In the fifteenth I sing of mighty Nicaea, the rosy-armed beast-slayer who threatened the Loves.

So he spoke, and cloud-like the swarthy Indians flowed in

about the honey-breathing stream of the river; of whom one,

stepping close, planting his double step firm on the mud,

stood half-seen, wetting his navel in the water,

bent, stretching his stooped back into the river,

with hands hollowed deep he drew up the honey-dropping water;

and another by the outflow, gripped by burning thirst,

dipping his jutting beard in the purple wave,

spreading his breast from above on the river bank,

with open mouth drew up the moisture of Bacchus;

and another lay face down, bringing his mouth to the neighbouring spring,

and resting his wet hands on the sandy floor

with thirsty lips received the thirst-quenching water;

others drew the drunkenness with an earthen cup,

lifting the base of a broken jar;

and a great swarm drank from the reddening stream,

pouring with a wooden bowl the mass of the river's dew,

holding the rustic cup of sheep-tending men. And as the foes

belched up the wine from their capacious throats,

to their seeing eyes the crags were doubled,

and to their eyelids the water seemed twin-yoked.

And the outflow of the unmixed-wine-loving river gurgled,

spouting up the yellow stream of drunkenness; and of the sweet-drinking

wine the fragrant banks belched the streams.

And the strong-wine flood made the foes drunk. There a man,

an Indian, shaken by the frenzy of mind-stealing drink,

darted into the herd, and by the well-leaved thicket

led off a threatening bull, dragging it bound,

gripping the scored tip of its twin horns

with daring hands, as though by the twin horn

dragging bull-shaped Dionysus under a slavish yoke;

another, holding the dread jaw of an iron sickle,

cut through the throat of a mountain-grazing goat,

mangled by the whetted reaping-hook, as though cutting

the neck of well-horned Pan with hook-clawed bronze;

another destroyed the horn-drawn race of oxen,

as though mowing down the bull-faced shape of the Satyrs,

and one chased the race of long-horned deer,

gazing at the dappled, much-embroidered look of their hide,

as though destroying the line of the Bassarids; for by the cunning

fawnskins of like pattern his eyes were led astray;

and staining his whole corslet with murderous drops

the black Indian spearman reddened with gore.

And one, shouting, armed himself against a neighbouring tree,

lashing it on either side, and seeing in the spring

the coiling foliage of plants shaken by the winds

he destroyed the soft-haired shoots of the clusters,

splitting the leaves of the shaggy oak, as though with a sword

cutting through the lock of unshorn Dionysus,

fighting with leaves and not striving with Satyrs,

holding a useless delight in a shadowy victory.

And another band of the foes raved; and instead of a spear

one, taking up the deep-sounding timbrel by its shoulder-strap,

lifted it high, and with the double-beaten oxhide

struck up a bronze-clashing, twin-yoked echo of song;

and one, shaken by the cry of the many-holed flute,

danced unsteady with the coiling beat of his feet;

and one, setting the lotus-pipe to untried lips,

made the two-voiced harmony of the Mygdonian flute;

and one, leaping by the neighbouring root of an aged plant,

drew up the grey shoot of the well-dropping olive,

soaked with dewy rain, as though squeezing

with a wine-coloured drop the tip of his Maronian beard.

Others with swords, with spears, with helmets,

irresistibly raving, their minds undone by mind-stealing wine,

mimicked the rites of the shield-bearing Corybantes,

whirling their steps in an armed dance;

and with answering sweeps of their hands, coiling,

the shields were beaten with tumbling iron;

another, watching the rites of the revel-loving Muse,

leapt with the Satyrs in a mimic dance;

and one, hearing the din of the beaten oxhide,

took on a gentle temper, and with din-loving purpose

threw to the winds his dread quiver,

holding frenzy; and another, a woman-mad Indian chief,

seizing a high-necked Bacchant by her unbound lock,

dragging the untamed maiden recklessly to wedlock,

bound her over the ground, and stretching her in the dust

with love-mad hands unsealed her girdle,

borne on by a vain hope; for suddenly

an upright serpent crept hidden in her bosom, near her loins,

and darted at the foe's neck, and about his throat

with its tail-coils wove a round girdle;

and the dark-skinned man, fleeing with frightened feet,

shook off the hot goad of unwedded Loves,

wearing about his neck the snaky chain of the thorn.

While the wine-flushed Indians ran upon the mountains,

so long sweet Sleep, coiling his close wing,

fell upon the unbending, faltering eyes of the Indians,

and lulled them, their minds stung by measureless wine,

doing a favour to Dionysus, father of Pasithea;

of whom one slept face up with head bent back,

drawing wine-tottering breath through his sleepy nostril,

and one laid his heavy head on a stone,

sluggish, lying on the pebbled river bank,

and conversed with mind-wandering daytime dreams,

setting his stiff fingers upright about his temples;

and another lay stretched face down, and had both

hands let down, drawn equal along his twin thighs;

and one rested his head on the wrist of his own hand,

belching up wine; and another, bending his curved limbs

like a coiling snake, lay sleeping aslant.

And the band of foes, carried to the ridge of the wood,

one slept under an oak, another under an elm bush,

another, falling on his side, leaned against a holm-oak,

throwing his left hand on his frowning brow;

and a great swarm slept, a babbling corpse, sending to the air

the unbridled, meaningless din of a different echo,

wine-heavy; and another, with nodding head,

leaned his broad back on the trunk of an aged laurel;

and as he slumbered heavy on a deep-spread bed

of high-crested palm or well-flowering olive

a coiling shoot, fanned by the winds, whistled over him;

and one was stretched over the ground in the loose dust,

drenching his feet's ends in the river's outflow;

another raved with the beat of untried drunkenness,

and rested his heavy head on a neighbouring pine;

and the brow-sinews of another, snorting, were shaken.

And seeing the foes asleep, with laughing face

lord Bacchus spoke, pouring out a commanding voice:

"Indian-slaying servants of unconquered Dionysus,

binding the assembled sons of the Indians without battle

take them all alive in bloodless warfare;

and bending a slavish knee to mighty Dionysus

let the Indian serve my revel-loving Rhea,

shaking the wine-dark thyrsus, and casting to the storms

the silver greave let him bind his feet in buskins,

and crown his head with my ivy bond,

stripping the locks of his crest-lifting helmet,

and leaving the war-cry and the spear's echo

let him sing the euion to cluster-bearing Dionysus."

So he spoke, and the servants busied themselves; of whom one

coiling a snaky bond about the foes' necks

dragged a man fettered with a serpent-rope,

another, taking the slackened pull of a shaggy beard,

dragged a man up by his deep-flowing throat;

and one, stretching out his hands to the crook-haired temple,

dragged a spear-won man unbound by the hair;

another, fastening his folded hands behind the back,

wreathed the foe with a coiling bond of withies

about the neck; and with trembling beat Maron tottered,

lifting an Indian weighed down on his aged shoulder;

another, taking a spearman overcome by sleep,

dragging his neck wound about with a cluster-bond,

set him over the rim of the dappled leopard cars;

and over another lying down the euion-loving wandering swarm

bound his back-strained hands with an unbreakable bond,

and mounted the necks of the stiff-footed elephants;

and one, taking the strap of a well-rounded oxhide,

held an Indian fettered with a shoulder-thong.

And one, a Bassarid, lifting up a shepherd's crook,

foaming with the mind-soothing wave of frenzy,

an Indian explorer of the deep-rich sea

with daring hand dragged by his much-bending hair

to a slavish yoke. And as Lyaeus pressed on,

iron Erechtheus held a well-armoured foe

on his unbending shoulders; and the wine-tottering bearer's

black-skinned beast a mountain Bacchant drove,

lashing the haunches of the spear-won elephants;

and Hymenaeus lifted up a golden oxhide,

despoiling a man of his golden shield, and gladly

Bacchus looked on the youth with love-mad eyes,

shining bright in the armour of the sleeping bearer;

and the young man hurled a rich radiance in the gear,

as taking the arms of Lycian Glaucus Diomedes

flashed before the warriors, glittering with the rich shield.

And the army of the Bacchae plundered the other foes,

holding sweet sleep, companion of pleasant wine.

There a maiden, curved-bow archer, companion of the lonely wood,

reared with the Astacid Nymphs, bloomed in beauty,

fair-grown Nicaea, another hare-shooting Artemis,

a stranger to love, untried in Cytherea,

shooting beasts and tracking them over the hills;

nor was she hidden in the fragrant recess of a maiden's chamber.

And on the crags, beside the desert-roaming foot of the hills,

her bow was her distaff, and ever within the thicket

her long spinning-threads were winged arrows,

and the upright wood of her hunting-stakes the loom of mountain Athena;

and she kept company with the pure Arrow-pourer as fellow-toiler,

and on the crags she wove the net of her accustomed hunting,

dearer than the wrought thread; never with her bow

did she touch a feeble fawn of dappled form,

nor did she chase gazelles, nor lay hand on a hare,

but harnessing with a bloody bridle

she lashed the grey backs of shaggy-breasted lions,

and often she raised a spear against a raging she-bear;

and she blamed the far-shooting Arrow-pourer, that, leaving

the race of dappled leopards and the tribes of lions,

she yoked her car to worthless deer.

Nor did she care for perfume, but before honey-mixed cups

she preferred the watery drink of a ravine-spring,

pouring out cold water; and in the self-roofed hollow

was the maiden's hard-to-enter home, the desert crags;

and often, after the course of the easy, accustomed hunt,

she sat near the leopards, and under a single hollow rock

she stayed at noon, beside a lioness newly delivered;

and the gentle beast, under its calm brows,

licked the maiden's body with unrending jaws,

and like a whimpering dog with timid throat

it whined gently from the eager mouth of the raw-bearing lioness,

with sparing lip, and deeming her to be Artemis

the lion, lowering its suppliant head to the ground,

leaned against the maiden with its shaggy neck.

And in the woods a mountain-reared herdsman bloomed,

upright, of great stature, taller than youths of his own age;

his name was Hymnus, who in the midst of the wild wood

pastured his lovely cattle beside the neighbouring girl;

and shaking the herdsman's crook in his lovely hands

he came into deep love and no longer delighted in his flock,

like rosy Anchises, whom once Cypris

pastured his white line of mountain-grazing bulls,

lightening the cattle-driving girdle; and about the thicket

the herdsman, seeing the snowy girl hunting,

cared nothing for his herd of cattle; and wandering

of her own accord the lonely heifer grazed into the marsh,

strayed far from her old love-sick herdsman,

and the calf was carried about, leaping over the hills,

seeking the shepherd; and the young herdsman wandered

gazing at the rosy circle of the maiden's face.

And cunning Eros stirred the longing herdsman,

shaken by a more violent goad; for on the crags

as the maiden sped on the unapproachable course of the hunt

a light breeze swelled her whole robe into the air;

and the beauty of her flesh bloomed; her thighs gleamed white

and her ankles reddened, and like a lily, like an anemone

the rosy meadow of her snowy limbs shone forth;

and the young man, walking in longing with insatiate gaze,

watched the free rim of her uncovered thighs

[ . . . ] of [ . . .

The cluster of her back-streaming hair the breeze tossed,

lightening it on either side, and as her locks lifted

her bare middle neck flashed white-shining.

And the young mountain-roamer often went beside the girl,

now touching the hunting-stakes or handling the bow,

now, as the love-stricken arrow was drawn,

he watched the lovely girl's rosy-skinned fingers;

if ever, as she shot, she rounded the horn against the string,

and her hand was bared, the young man, unnoticed, with sidelong eye

watched the white archer-arm of the girl,

turning back his eye, the conduit of the Loves,

whether so great, like Nicaea, was white-armed Hera;

and to the western verge he stretched his gaze,

whether more silvery was the maiden, or Selene.

And the young man, tending the wound of the Loves beneath his heart,

near her and far from her thought of the girl,

how she drew her shaft to the mark against a mountain bear,

how she fastened her hand to a lion's neck,

curving her twin arm in a witnessing bond,

how again, sweating, she bathed in a spring's stream,

half-seen, and ever more he remembered her robe,

when, shaking it and lifting it as far as her navel,

baring the bloom of her flesh, the breeze hurled it up;

keeping that in mind he prayed to the sweet gusts

to lift again her deep-folded tunic.

And the unsteady young man, beside the well-horned flock,

seeing the neighbouring high-necked girl hunting

let fly such a word with envious voice:

"Would that I were an arrow, or a net, or a quiver,

would that I were a beast-slaying shaft, that with bare

hands she might lift me; and of her back-strained bow

I would far rather be the ox-sinew, that to her snowy

breast she might bring me, outside her chaste girdle—

yes, heifer, yes, calf, outside her chaste girdle.

Maiden, you lift a blessed shaft; and your

arrows are happier than shepherd Hymnus,

because they touch your love-bearing hands.

I envy your sweet, voiceless hunting-stakes;

nor does the longing for the stakes alone carry me; but I have

envy of the very bow and the breathless quiver.

Would that, resting at noon by a love-stricken spring,

she might cool her limbs, that I might see the high-necked girl—

yes, heifer, yes, calf, free of the envious tunic.

Have you not yet, Cytherea, pitied so great a constraint?

I know not Thrinacia nor the horn-drawn flock,

I pasture no cattle of Helios on these mountains,

my father told of no secret bed of Ares.

Maiden, do not chase me, even if I lead cattle to pasture;

herdsmen too have mounted heavenly beds:

rosy Tithonus was a bridegroom, whom for his beauty

light-bringing Dawn, halting her car, snatched away;

and the cup-bearer of Zeus was a herdsman, whom for his beauty

high-flying Zeus lifted up in sparing talons.

Come, pasture cattle, and I will call you a younger Selene,

with another cowherd, with Endymion;

throw your shaft and touch your crook, that one may say:

'Cytherea pastures the cattle of shepherd Hymnus.'"

So he spoke and entreated, and grasped her dear knees

with woman-mad hands, and followed her, and to tell her

he trembled at the goad of Eros, and blamed himself in his silence.

And once, taking courage, the underworker of bridal Loves,

he lifted up the hunting-gear of Nicaea lying there,

and raised the fierce spear, and under a greater goad of desire,

while the girl was angry, lifted her sweet quiver,

and kissed the silent nets and the breathless arrows,

setting the murderous shaft to his delighting lips,

and pressed it to his breast, squeezing with unsparing hand;

and he spoke a word in some soundless voice:

"By Paphia, speak again, oaks, as in Pyrrha's day,

as in Deucalion's, rebuke the raging girl.

Laurel, dear one, you too break a tree-voice;

would that fair Nicaea had lived before, and then Apollo

would have chased a more delicate maiden, and Daphne would not have become a tree."

So he spoke; and on his pipe, near the chaste girl,

witness of his pain, he made a bridal song.

And the maiden spoke, laughing at the herdsman:

"Sweet is your Pan, piping Paphia's song;

often he sang of love and was no bridegroom of Echo.

Ah, how much Daphnis the cowherd sang; and at his song

the maiden hid herself the more in untrodden crags,

fleeing the song of the shepherd's cry. Ah, how much of Phoebus

Daphne heard singing, and her heart was not charmed."

So speaking she showed the fierce spear to the foolish herdsman.

But he, struck by the raging sweet goad,

not knowing that the Amazon was so loveless,

let fly an ill-loving voice, herald of his own death:

"Yes, I beg you, send the dear spear, and with your snowy

hand kill me, and I rejoice; not your lance,

I do not fear, bed-shunner, your sword, because it would grant

a sharpest end, that I may at last escape the bitter,

fixed wound of Eros, the fire feeding under my heart.

Let me die, since the doom is lovely; but if with a shaft,

bow-bearer next after Cypris, you too will shoot me,

by Paphia, do not send it at my neck, but fix

your shaft in my heart, where the shaft of the Loves is.

Rather throw your spear at my neck, do not strike my heart;

I want no other wound. But if it pleases you,

I will endure another shaft, that earth may cover me

both holding the wound of fire and pierced by iron.

Kill me, the love-sick one, do not spare your string.

You unman the iron whenever you touch your arrows;

of my own accord I stand a mark, with delighted eye

watching the fingers glittering about the notches,

drawing out again your honey-sweet string,

brought near your rosy right breast.

I die, a willing corpse of Eros, by a sweet doom;

I care nothing for death and do not fear the cloud of shafts,

watching your bare snowy hand

touching the bow and the lovely arrow.

Against me let fly all the shafts of your quiver,

against me send the murderous shafts; for more bitter

are the other fire-pointed arrows that harry me.

But if you kill me with your heart-charming bow,

maiden, do not burn my body with the accustomed pyre;

I want no other burning; but you, girl,

only pour sweet dust over me when I am dead

with your own hand, a last small grace, that one may say:

'The maiden pitied as she killed the man she slew.' And of the dead

let no flute of mine, no harp lie about my tomb,

do not throw down the shepherd's crook, witness of my craft;

but fix your shaft of the slain one high over my tomb,

still bathed in the gore of my love-sickness.

And grant me one last other grace high over my tomb:

let the flowers of love-stricken Narcissus arise,

or lovely crocus or the bindweed flower of the Loves,

and plant the springtime short-lived anemone

proclaiming to all my short-lived youth.

And if no pitiless sea or hills bore you,

shed a little tear for me, only so much as with dews

to wet the rosy tips of your lovely cheek,

and with your hand carve this word in mournful red:

'Here lies the cowherd Hymnus, whom, denied his bed,

the maiden Nicaea killed and gave burial to when dead.'"

So he spoke, and Nicaea was angered; and raging

she bared the deadly lid of the venom-shooting quiver

and drew out a straight-coursing shaft, and stretching it out

she rounded the curved horn of the back-strained bow,

and the windy shaft against the herdsman's throat

as he spoke she let fly, and the irresistible wandering shaft

while he still poured out his speech sealed it with a bond in his throat.

But the corpse was not tearless then; for blaming

man-slaying Nicaea the mountain Nymph grieved,

mourning the dead Hymnus; and in her well-watered hall

the Rhyndacid girl, water-borne, unsandalled, lamented;

and the Naiads wept; and above Sipylus the neighbouring

rock of Niobe lamented more with self-poured tears.

And a younger girl, still untried in bridal Loves,

not yet companion of Bucolion's couch,

Naiad Abarbaree, often was indignant at the nymph;

and about the peak of Dindymon, near the thicket together,

the Astacid Nymphs reproached the ways of the Cybelean nymph,

and they uttered the dirge; and not so much over the burning doom

did the Heliades weep for dead Phaethon.

And gazing at the untamed heart of the murderous girl

Eros threw down his bow, and swore an oath to the herdsman

to yoke the unwilling maiden to Dionysus.

And with tearless eyes, upon her lion-car,

Dindymian Rhea lamented the fallen youth,

mother of Zeus, queen; and at the death of slain Hymnus

the maiden Echo, hating marriage, wailed.

And the oaks spoke: "Why did the herdsman sin so against you?

May Cytherea never, may Artemis never be gracious to you."

And Adresteia saw, she saw the murderous girl,

Adresteia saw the corpse twitching by the iron,

and showed the freshly-slain corpse to the Cyprus-born,

and blamed Eros himself. And by the well-leaved thicket

the bull's tears flowed in pity for Hymnus,

and the calf wept, and the grieving cow lamented

for the gasping shepherd, and seemed to cry out this:

"The fair herdsman is dead, and a fair girl killed him.

The maiden killed the one who longed for her, and instead of love-charms

gave doom as his wage, and in the love-stricken herdsman's

blood she dipped the bronze and quenched the fire of the Loves—

the fair herdsman is dead, and a fair girl killed him—

and grieved the Nymphs; she did not hear the mountain rock,

she did not heed the elm, nor reverence the pine

as it begged: 'Do not send the shaft, do not kill the herdsman.'"

And the wolf lamented Hymnus, the shameless bears lamented,

and with grim eyelids the lion wailed for the herdsman:

"The fair herdsman is dead, and a fair girl killed him.

Seek another rock, oxen, search out, bulls,

a strange mountain; for my sweet herdsman is dead with longing,

cut down by a woman's hand. To what thicket

do I lead my step? Farewell, pastures, farewell, beds of earth.

The fair herdsman is dead, and a fair girl killed him.

Farewell to me, peaks and mountains, farewell, springs,

farewell, Naiads, and my oaks. And both

Pan of the pastures and Phoebus cried aloud; let the flute wander.

Where is Nemesis? Where Cypris? Eros, do not touch the quiver;

pipe, sing no more; the clear-voiced herdsman is dead."

And the blameless gore of the wretched herdsman, slain by the Loves,

Phoebus showed to his sister, and Artemis herself lamented

the dead love of Hymnus, even if she was untried in the Loves.